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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


By  JOHN 
GREENLEAF 
WHITTIER 


New    York 

Hurst    &    Company 

Publishers 


UNIVERSITY  Or  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


CONTENTS. 


PROEM, 


PAGE 
7 


MOGG  MEGONE  : 

Part  I 8 

Part  II 19 

Part  III 31 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK 37 

1.  The  Merrimack 41 

II.  The  Bashaba 41 

III.  The  Daughter 44 

IV.  The  Wedding 46 

V.  The  New  Home 48 

VI.  At  Pennacook 50 

VII.  The  Departure 52 

VIII.  Song  of  Indian  Women 53 

LEGENDARY  : 

The  Merrimack 54 

The  Norsemen 56 

Cassandra  Southwick 58 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis 61 

St.  John 64 

Pentucket 66 

The  Familist's  Hymn 68 

The  Fountain 69 

The  Exiles 71 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old 74 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM  ; 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture 76 

The  Slave  Ships 82 

Stanzas,  Our  Countrymen  in  Chains.  84 

The  Yankee  Girl 86 

To  W.  L.  G 87 

Song  of  the  Free 88 

The  Hunters  of  Men 89 

Clerical  Oppressors 90 

The  Christian  Slave 91 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 93 

Lines  written  on  reading  Gov.   Rit- 

ner's  Message,  1836 95 

Lines  written    on    reading   Famous 

"  Pastoral  Letter." 96 

Lines  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the 
Anti-Slavery    Society  at   Chatham 

Street  Chapel,  New  York,  1834 99 

Lines  written  for  the  Celebration  of 
the  Third  Anniversarty  of  British 

Emancipation,  1837 I0° 

Lines   written   for  the    Anniversary 
Celebration  of  the  First  of  August 

at  Milton,  1846 , 101 


PAGE 

The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave 
Mother  to  her  Daughter  sold  into 

Southern  Bondage 102 

Address  written  for  the  Opening  of 

"  Pennsylvania  Hall " 104 

The  Moral  Warfare 107 

The  Response 107 

The  World's  Convention  of  the 
Friends  of  Emancipation,  held  in 

London  in  1840 no 

New  Hampshire 115 

The  New  Year  :  addressed  to  the 
Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Free 
men 115 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia no 

The  Relic 121 

Stanzas  for  the  Times — 1844 123 

The  Branded  Hand 126 

Texas 127 

To  Faneuil  Hall 128 

To  Massachusetts 129 

The  Pine  Tree 130 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Visit  to  the  City 
of  Washington  in  the  I2th  Month 

of  1845 130 

Lines    from  a   Letter    to  a    Young 

Clerical  Friend 134 

Yorktown 134 

Ego,  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend  136 

To  Gov.  M'Duffie 140 

Lines  written  on  Reading  "  Rights 
and  Wrongs  of  Boston,  Contain 
ing  an  Account  of  the  Meeting  of 
the  Boston  Female  Anti-Slavery 
Society  and  the  Mob  which  fol 
lowed  on  the  2ist  of  the  loth  month, 

1835 142 

Lines  written  on  the  adoption  of 
Pinckney's  Resolutions 142 


MISCELLANEOUS  : 

Palestine 

Ezekiel 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  Her  Hus 
band 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain 

The  Crucifixion 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 

Christ  in  the  Tempest 

"  Knowest  Thou  the  Ordinances  of 
Heaven." 

Hymns  from  the  French  of  Lamar- 
tine 


149 
'5' 
'5* 
'S3 


156 
'V 


CONTENTS. 


The  Female  Martyr 160 

The  Frost  Spirit 162 

The  Vaudois  Teacher 163 

The  Call  of  the  Christian 164 

My  soul  and  1 165 

To  a  Friend  on  her    Return  from 

Europe 169 

The  Angel  of  Patience '170 

Follen,  on  reading  his  Essay  on  the 

"Future  State  " I7I 

To  the  Reformers  of  England 174 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time 175 

The  Reformer    I76 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 178 

Lines  written  on  reading  Several 
Pamphlets  published  by  Clergy 
men  against  the  Abolition  of  the 

Gallows x8o 

The  Worship  of  Nature 182 

Lines   written   in  the  Commonplace 

Book  of  a  Young  Lady 183 

The  Watcher 18$ 

The  City  of  Refuge 188 

The  Human  Sacrifice 188 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 193 

Democracy 194 

ToRonge 196 

ChalkleyHall i97 

To  John  Pierpont 199 

The  Cypress  Tree  of  Ceylon 199 

A  Dream  of  Summer 201 

To ,  with  a  copy  of  "  Woolman's 

Journal" 202 

Leggett's  Monument 204 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista 204 

Forgiveness 206 

Barclay  of  Ury 207 

What  the  Voice  said 208 

To  Delaware 210 

Worship 211 

The  Album 212 

The  Demon  of  the  Study 213 

The  Pumpkin 216 

Extract     from     a    "  New    England 

Legend" 217 

Hampton  Beach 218 

Lines    written    on    hearing    of   the 

Death  of  Silas  Wright 220 

Lines     accompanying     Manuscripts 

presented  to  a  Friend 221 

The  Reward 222 

Raphael 223 

Lines  written  on  visiting  a  singular 

Cave  in  Chester,  N.  H 225 

Suicide  Pond ,, 227 

Stanzas  suggested  by  the  letter  of  a 

Friend ! 228 

Lines  on  a  Portrait 229 

The  Murdered  Lady 230 

The  Weird  Gathering 232 

The  Black  Fox 238  ( 

The  White  Mountains 240 

The  Indian's  Tale 242 

The  Spectre  Ship 244 

The  Spectre  Warriors 247 

The  Last  Norridgewock 249 

The  Aerial  Omens 250 


MEMORIALS  : 

Lucy  Hooper 252 

Channmg * 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs  257 
Lines   on    the   Death   of    S.   Oliver 


258 


A  Lament 

Daniel  Wheeler.... 

Daniel  Neall ....'.'.'....    "  263 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his 

Sister 26 

Gone 26- 

To  the  Memory  of  J.  O.  Rockwell..  266 
The  Unquiet  Sleeper 267 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  OTHER  POEMS: 
Dedication... 


270 


The  Ship-builders 2?I 

The  Shoemakers 272 

The  Drovers 275 

The  Fishermen ,  377 

TheHuskers  279 

The  Corn  Song 28o 

The  Lumbermen 282 

MISCELLANEOUS  1 

The  Lake-side 286 

The  Hill-top 287 

On  receiving  an  Eagle's  Quill  from 

Lake  Superior 289 

Memories 291 

The  Legend  of  St.  Mark 292 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree 295 

To  my  Sister 295 

Autumn  Thoughts 296 

Calef  in  Boston,  1692 297 

To  Pius  IX 298 

Elliott 300 

Ichabod ! 301 

The  Christian  Tourists 302 

The  Men  of  Old 304 

The  Peace  Convention  at  Brussels..  305 

The  Wish  of  To-day  307 

Our  State 308 

All's  Well 308 

Seed  Time  and  Harvest 309 

To  A.  K.  on  receiving  a  Basket  of 

Sea-mosses 310 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-breakers. . .  311 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique 314 

The  Crisis 316 

The  Knight  of  St.  John 318 

The  Holy  Land 320 

Mount  Agiochook 321 

Metacom 322 

The  Fratricide 326 

Isabella  of  Austria 328 

Stanzas  —Bind  up  thy  Tresses 330 

The  Missionary 331 

An  Evening  in  Burniah 334 

Massachusetts 337 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley..  339 

A  Summons 340 

The  Exile's  Departure 342 

The  Deity 343 


CONTENTS. 


BALLADS : 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann 344 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery.  346 

The  Witch's  Daughter 348 

The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewell. .  352 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 355 

Telling  the  Bees 357 

The  Sycamores 358 

The     Double-headed     Snake     of 

Newbury 360 

The  Truce  of  Piscataqua 362 

My  Playmate 366 

POEMS  AND  LYRICS: 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge  366 

On  a  Prayer-book 368 

The  Quaker  Alumni 370 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie 374 

From  Perugia 375 

The  Shadow  and  the  Light 377 

The  Gift  of  Tritemius 379 

The  Eve  of  Election 380 

The  Over-heart 381 

Trinitas 38^ 

The  Old  Burying-ground 384 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow 385 

My  Psalm 386 

Le  Marais  De  Cygne 387 

"  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghor 388 

To  J.  T.  F ..  389 

The  Palm-tree 390 

Lines  for  the  Burns  Festival 391 

The  Red  River  Voyageur 391 

KenozaLake ..  392 

ToG  B.C 393 

The  Sisters 393 

Lines    for    an    Agricultural    Ex 
hibition  394 

The  Preacher 394 

For  an  Autumn  Festival 402 

IN  WAR  TIME  : 

Thy  Will  be  Done 402 


PAGE 

A  Word  for  the  Hour 403 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott"  404 

To  John  C.  Fremont 405 

The  Watchers 405 

To  Englishmen 407 

Astraea  at  the  Capitol 408 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862 409 

Mithridates  at  Chios 410 

The  Proclamation 410 

Anniversary  Poem 411 

At  Port  Royal 413 

Song  of  the  Negro  Boatmen 418 

Barbara  Frietchie 414 


HOME  BALLADS : 

Cobbler  Keezar 's  Vision 416 

Amy  Wentvvorth 418 

The  Countess 421 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS  ; 

Naples— 1860 434 

The  Summons 425 

The  Waiting 425 

Mountain  Pictures. 

I.  Franconia  from  the  Pemige- 

wasset 426 

II.  Monaduock  from  Wachuset.  427 

Our  River 428 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer    .  429 

The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul 431 

Italy 432 

The  River  Path 432 

A  Memorial.     M.  A.  C 433 

Hymn  sung  at  Christmas  by  the 
Scholars  of  St.  Helena's  Island, 

S.C 435 

Snow-Bound 435 

The  Wreck  of  the  Rivermouth. ..  447 

The  Brother  of  Mercy  450 

The  Vanishers 452 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake 452 

Kallundborg  Church 454 

The  Mantle  of  St.  John  de  Matha.  456 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


PROEM. 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
"Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

Oh  Freedom !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvel's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine! 

AMESBURY,  nth  month,  1847. 

7 


8  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

MOGG  MEGONE. 
PABT  I. 

[  The  story  of  MOGG  MEGONH  has  been  considered  by  the  author  only  as  a  framework  for 
sketches  of  the  scenery  of  New  England,  and  of  its  early  inhabitants.  In  portraying  the  Indian 
character,  he  has  followed,  as  closely  as  his  story  would  admit,  the  rough  but  natural  deline 
ations  of  Church,  Mayhew,  Charleyoix,  and  Roger  Williams  ;  and  in  so  doing  he  has  necessarily 
discarded  much  of  the  romance  which  poets  and  novelists  have  thrown  around  the  ill-fated  red 
man. — ED.] 

WHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 
Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on  high, 

Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megoue  ?  * 

Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 
While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is  doing, 

Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 

And  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hewing! 

Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river, 

Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 

The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are  seen, 

With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 

While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 

Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 

Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 

He  is  watchful :  each  form,  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him : 

He  listens ;  each  sound  from  afar  is  caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb : 

But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam  and  fret, 

Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin  wet — 

And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears  it  not. 

The  moonlight,  through  the  open  bough 

Of  the  gnarl'd  beech,  whose  naked  root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,  checkered,  on  the  Indian's  brow. 
His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wTind  one  lock  of  hair, 

Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 

When  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to  knee, 
Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping-knife. 

*  MOGG  MEGONE,  or  Hegone,  was  a  leader  among  the  Saco  Indians,  in  the  bloody  war  of 
1677.  He  attacked  and  captured  the  garrison  at  Black  Point,  October  1 2th  of  that  year  ;  and 
cut  off,  at  the  same  time,  a  party  of  Englishmen  near  Saco  River.  From  a  deed  signed  by  this 
Indian  in  1664,  and  from  other  circumstances,  it  seems  that,  previous'to  the  war,  he  had  mingled 
much  with  the  colonists.  On  this  account,  he  was  probably  selected  by  the  principal  sachems 
as  their  agent,  in  the  treaty  signed  in  November,  1676, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  9 

Megone  hath  his  knife  and  hatchet  and  gun, 
And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket  on : 
His  knife  hath  a  handle  with  gold  inlaid, 
And  magic  words  on  its  polished  blade — 
'Twas  the  gift  of  Castine  *  to  Mogg  Megone, 
For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yeugees  torn: 
His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 

And  Modocawando's  wives  had  strung 
The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle  and  shine 
On  the  polished  breech,  and  broad  bright  line 

Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

What  seeks  Megone  ?    His  foes  are  near — 

Gray  Jocelyn's  f  eye  is  never  sleeping, 
And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning  clear, 

Where  Phillips'  ^  men  their  watch  are  keeping. 
Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank  river  fog, 

Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  displacing  the  rocks, 
For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are  watching  for  Mogg, 

Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or  the  fox. 

He  starts — there's  a  rustle  among  the  leaves : 
Another — the  click  of  his  gun  is  heard ! — 

A  footstep — is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 
With  Indian  blood  on  his  English  sword  ? 

Steals  Harmon  |  down  from  the  sands  of  York, 

With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork  ? 

Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 

For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle  ?  § 

Hark !  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 
How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone ! 

A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow — 

"  Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Bonython!  " 

*  Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada  in  1644.  Leaving  his  civilized  companions,  he  plunged 
into  the  great  wilderness,  and  settled  among  the  Penobscot  Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their 
noble  river.  He  here  took  for  his  wives  the  daughters  of  the  great  Modocawando — the  most 

Eowerful  sachem  of  the  east.  His  castle  was  plundered  by  Governor  Andros,  during  his  reck- 
;ss  administration  ;  and  the  enraged  Baron  is  supposed  to  have  excited  the  Indians  into  open 
hostility  to  the  English. 

t  The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garrison  at  Black  Point,  which  Mogg  attacked  and 
plundered.  He  was  an  old  man  at  the  period  to  which  the  tale  relates. 

J  Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men  of  the  Colony.  His  garrison  sustained  a  long  and 
terrible  siege  by  the  savages.  As  a  magistrate  and  a  gentleman,  he  exacted  of  his  plebeian 
neighbors  a  remarkable  degree  of  deference.  The  Court  Records  of  the  settlement  inform  us 
that  an  individual  was  fined  for  the  heinous  offence  of  saying  that  "  Major  Phillips'  mare  was 
as  lean  an  an  Indian  dog." 

II  Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgeana,  now  York,  was,  for  many  years,  the  terror  of  the  Eastern 
Indians.  In  one  of  his  expeditions  up  the  Kennebec  River,  at  the  head  of  a  party  of  rangers,  he 
discovered  twenty  of  the  savages  asleep  by  a  large  fire.  Cautiously  creeping  toward  them,  until 
he  was  certain  of  his  aim,  he  ordered  his  men  to  single  out  their  objects.  The  first  discharge 
killed  or  mortally  wounded  the  whole  number  of  the  unconscious  sleepers. 

§  Wood  island,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Saco.  It  was  visited  by  the  Sieur  De  Monts  ai\d 
Champlain,  in  1603.  The  following  extract,  from  the  journal  of  the  latter,  relates  to  it. 
"  Having  left  the  Kennebec,  we  ran  along  the  coast  to  the  westward,  and  cast  anchor  under  a 
small  island,vnear  the  mainland,  where  we  saw  twenty  or  more  natives.  I  here  visited  an  island, 
beautifully  clothed  with  a  fine  growth  of  forest  trees,  particularly  of  the  oak  and  walnut  ;  and 
overspread  with  vines,  that,  in  their  season,  produce  excellent  grapes.  We  named  it  the  island 
of  Bacchus." — Les  voyages  de  Sieur  Champlain,  Liv,  2,  c.  3, 


10  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython !  * 
A  low,  lean  swarthy  man  is  he, 
"With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he  sprung, 
And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

"  Hush — let  the  Sachem's  voice  be  weak; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak — 

The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man's  ear, 

That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is  herel" 

He  pauses — dark,  over  cheek  and  brow, 

A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now: 

"  Sachem ! "  he  says,  "  let  me  have  the  land, 

Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 

As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 

In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 

From  the  leaping  brook  f  to  the  Saco  River — 
And  the  fair-haired  girl,  thou  has  sought  of  me, 
Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem's  wigwam,  and  be 

The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever." 

There's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's  glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling — 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  stealing. 

"  The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and  wood; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep  on  my  breast 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing  in  my  nest." 

*  John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard  Bonython,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most  efficient  and  able 
magistrates  of  the  Colony.  John  proved  to  be  "  a  degenerate  plant."  In  1635,  we  find,  by 
the  Court  Records,  that,  for  some  offence,  he  was  fined  405.  In  1640,  he  was  fined  for  abuse 
toward  R.  Gibson,  the  minister,  and  Mary,  his  wife.  Soon  after,  he  was  fined  for  disorderly 
conduct  in  the  house  of  his  father.  In  1645,  the  "  Great  and  General  Court  "  adjudged  "  John 
Bonython  outlawed,  and  incapable  of  any  of  his  majesty's  laws,  and  proclaimed  him  a  rebel." 
[Court  Records  of  the  Province,  1645.]  In  1651,  he  bade  defiance  to  the  laws  of  Massachusetts, 
and  was  again  outhuved.  He  acted  independently  of  all  law  and  authority;  and  hence,  doubt 
less,  his  burlesque  title  of  "  The  Sagamore  of  Saco,"  which  has  come  down  to  the  present  gen 
eration  in  the  following  epitaph : 

"  Here  lies  Bonython;  the  Sagamore  of  Saco, 

He  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave,  and  went  to  Hobomoko." 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a  large  estate.  In  this  poem,  I  have  taken  some  liber 
ties  with  him,  not  strictly  warranted  by  historical  facts,  although  the  conduct  imputed  to  him 
is  in  keeping  with  his  general  character.  Over  the  last  years  of  his  life  lingers  a  deep  obscurity. 
Even  the  manner  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  He  was  supposed  to  have  been  killed  by  the  In 
dians;  but  this  is  doubted  by  the  indefatigable  author  of  the  history  of  Saco  and  Biddeford.— 
Part  I.,  p.  115. 

t  FoxwelPs  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh  or  bog,  called  the  "  Heath,"  in  Saco,  containing  thir 
teen  hundred  acres.  On  this  brook,  and  surrounded  by  wild  and  romantic  scei»*ry,  is  a  beau 
tiful  waterfall,  of  more  than  sixty  feet. 


MOGG  MEGONE.  11 

"  But  father!" — and  the  Indian's  hand 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm — 
"  Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair  ? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word, 

And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair; 

But,  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone  shall  go  and  look  for  his  bride  ? — 
For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's  side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 
Flashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg  Megone, 
In  one  of  those  glances  which  search  within ; 

But  the  stolid  cairn  of  the  Indian  alone 
Remains  where  the  trace  of  emotion  has  been. 

"  Does  the  Sachem  doubt  ?    Let  him  go  with  me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride  shall  see." 

Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 

And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 

The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 

Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 

Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind, 

Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark ! — is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among  ? — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung  ? — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go: 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming ! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine  leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall  I— 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound ! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small. 


12  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 
Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like  these 
As  they  wound  along  through  the  crowded  trees, 
Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's  stroke 
On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough-barked  oak; — 
Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 

Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble  fine, 

Turning  aside  the  wild  grape  vine, 
And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of  the  frog, 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 

Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine ! 

f 

Yet  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word  : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  *  stood — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw's  charm; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul ! 

A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood — 

Red  through  its  seams  a  light  is  glowing, 
On  rock  and  bough  and  tree-trunk  rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"  Who's  there  ?  "  a  clear,  firm  voice  demands: 

"  Hold,  Ruth— 'tis  I,  the  Sagamore! " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 
Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood, 

*  Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher  on  Martha's  Vineyard ;  for  a  biography  of  whom 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Increase  Mayhew's  account  of  the  Praying  Indians,  1726.  The  follow 
ing  is  related  of  him:  "  One  Lord's  day,  after  meeting,  where  Hiacoomes  had  been  preaching, 
there  came  in  a  Powwaw  very  angry,  and  said,  '  I  know  all  the  meeting  Indians  are  liars.  You 
say  you  don't  care  for  the  Powwaws ;  ' — then,  calling  two  or  three  of  them  by  name,  he  railed 
at  them,  and  told  them  they  were  deceived,  for  the  Powwaws  could  kill  all  the  meeting  Indians, 
if  they  set  about  it.  But  Hiacoomes  told  him  that  he  would  be  in  the  midst  of  all  the  Powwaws 
in  the  island,  and  they  should  do  the  utmost  they  could  against  him ;  and  when  they  should 
do  their  worst  by  their  witchcraft  to  kill  him,  he  would  without  fear  set  himself  against  them, 
by  remembering  Jehovah.  He  told  them  also  he  did  put  all  the  Powwaws  under  his  heel. 
Such  was  the  faith  of  this  good  man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws  ever  able  to  do  these  Chris 
tian  Indians  any  hurt,  though  others  were  frequently  hurt  and  killed  by  them." — Mayhew's 
£ook,  pp.  6,  7,  c.  *. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

The  free  born  child  of  Solitude, 

And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting ; 
And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever, 
Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam- wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping  river. 
But,  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 

There  is  something  painful  and  sad  to  see ; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly  wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom  should  be. 
Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  ,a  form  and  so  noble  a  mien, 

As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes  them  there  I 
Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone : 

"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting  fare  ? 

And,  Sachem,  say — does  Scamman  wear, 
In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his  own  ?  " 
Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of  Megone — 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin ! 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket,  and  there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp  hair ! 

With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn  breath. 
She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood ! 

Look ! — feeling  melts  that  frozen  glance, 
It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met^ 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  beguiled 
The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child, — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

Oh !  woman  wronged  can  cherish  hate 

More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  may ; 
But,  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have  nursed, 
Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and  pain, 
Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 

Which  bound  her  to  the  traitor's  bosom — 
Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 

Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Bonython's  eyebrows  together  are  drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and  scorn — 
He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware! 

Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the  fool — 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school  ? — 
Curse  on  it! — an  Indian  can  see  and  hear: 
Away — and  prepare  our  evening  cheer!" 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 
Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow — 
With  a  serpent  eye,  which  kindles  and  burns, 

Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance  turns: 

"  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp  to  spare  ? 

For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale  brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog,  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam  floor : 

Go — Mogg  is  wise :  he  will  keep  his  land — 

And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels  with  his  hand, 
Shall  miss  his  scalp  where  it  grew  before. " 

The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone — 
The  lip  is  clenched — the  tears  are  still — 

God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython ! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 

Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 

As  with  an  iron  hand  repressed ! 

And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 

Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 

While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee,  and  yet 

The  bosoni  heaves — the  eye  is  wet — 

Has  thy  dark  spirft  power  to  §tay 


MOGG  MEGONE.  15 

The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way? 

And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of  guile, 
Which,  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek,  can  throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile  ? 
Warned  by  her  father's  blackening  frown, 
With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 
Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 

The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 

And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

"  Is  the  Sachem  angry — angry  with  Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her  tooth,* 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump  and  cry, 
And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye  ? 
No — Ruth  will  sit  in  the  Sachem's  door, 
And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 
And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his  corn, — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise,  and  none 
Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Megone  !  " 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more: 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half -shut  eye, 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 
Intent  upon  her  household  care ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,  Mogg  Megone ! — what  dreams  are  thine, 
But  those  which  love's  own  fancies  dress — 
The  sum  of  Indian  happiness ! — 

A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 

Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine — 

A  stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe, 

The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 

And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 

Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 

Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 

Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 

Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 

Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 
Venison  and  succotash  have  gone — 

*  "The  tooth-ache,"  says  Roger  Williams,  in  his  observations  upon  the  language  and  cu»« 
toms  of  the  New  England  tribes,  "  is  the  only  paine  which  will  force  their  stoute  hearts  to 
cry."  He  afterwards  remarks  that  even  the  Indian  women  never  cry  as  he  has  heard  "some 
of  their  men  in  this  paine." 


16  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 
But  untasted  of  Ruth  is  the  frugal  cheer — 
With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 
She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere  sire, 
Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire, 
With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine  tree, 
Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 
On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log  walls, 
And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From  Sagamore  Bonython's  hunting  flask 
The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Megone: 

"  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father  shall  ask? 
Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may  be  known, 

On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the  land, 

From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's  hand  ? " 

The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's  eyes, 
As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding  to  do: 

"  Wuttamuttata — weekan '  *  Mogg  is  wise — 
For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong  and  new,— 

Mogg's  heart  is  great ! — will  he  shut  his  hand, 

When  his  father  asks  for  a  little  land  ?  "— 

With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has  drawn 

On  the  parchment  the  shape  of  a  hunter's  bow: 
"  Boon  water — boon  water — Sagamore  John! 

Wuttamuttata — weekan!  our  hearts  will  grow!" 
He  drinks  yet  deeper — he  mutters  low — 
He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro — 
His  head  falls  down  on  his  naked  breast — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken  rest. 

"  Humph — drunk  as  a  beast!  "  and  Bonython's  brow 

Is  darker  than  ever  with  evil  thought — 
*'  The  fool  has  signed  his  warrant;  but  how 

And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought  ? 
Speak  Ruth !  why,  what  the  devil  is  here, 
To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air  ? — 
Speak,  Ruth ! — by  my  soul,  if  I  thought  that  tear, 
Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose  here, 
Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale-faced  dog, 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt  of  Mogg, 

And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's  keeping — 
This — this !  " — he  dashes  his  hand  upon 
The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun — 

"  Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do  thy  weeping!" 

*  Wuttamuttata,  "  Let  us  drink."  Weekan,  "  It  is  sweet."  Vide  Roger  Williams's  Ke^ 
"iff  the  Indian  Language,  "  in  that  parte  of  America  called  New  England."  London,  1643,  p 
35- 


MOGG  MEGONE.  IT 

"  Father !  " — the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks,  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 

By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death — 
Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  broken— 

A  sound  without  a  breath ! 
"  Father! — my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress ; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot : 
But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat — 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"  True,  true,  my  girl— I  only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 
Harm  thee,  my  Ruth !  I  only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy   thought ; — 
Come — let's  be  friends !  "     He  seeks  to  clasp 
His  daughter's  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 
Ruth  startles  from  her  father's  grasp, 
As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 
Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt, 
Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg, 
"  What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog  ? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is  thine — 
The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine ; 

And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no  more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and  sooth, 
'Twere  Christian  mercy,  to  finish  him,  Ruth, 

Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our  floor, — 
If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake, 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 
Such  a  forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit*  as  thou  wouldst  make  I " 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush — what  is  there  ? — 

The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 

With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glaring  eyes! — 
"  Wagh! — Mogg  will  have  the  pale-face's  hair, 

For  his  knife  is  sharp  and  his  fingers  can  help 
The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel — 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist  like  an  eel, 

The  great  Captain  Scamman  must  lose  his  scalp ! 

*  Wetuomanit — a  house  god,  or  demon.  "  They — the  Indians — have  given  me  the  names  of 
thirty-seven  gods,  which  I  have,  all  which  in  their  solemne  Worships  they  invocate!" — R. 
Williams's  Briefe  Observations  of  the  Customs,  Manners,  Worships,  &c.,  of  the  Natives,  in 
Peace  and  Warre,  in  Life  and  Death :  on  all  which  is  added  Spiritual  Observations,  General 
and  Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special  use — upon  all  occasions — to  all  the  English  inhabiting 
these  parts ;  yet  Pleasant  and  Profitable  to  the  view  of  all  Mene,  p.  no,  c.  21. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  'Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance  with  Mogg." 
His  eyes  are  fixed — but  his  lips  draw  in — 
With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiendish  grin, — 
And.  he  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless  log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak — she  does  not  stir; 
But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 
Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers  tell, 
Too  much  for  her  ear,  of  that  deed  of  hell. 
She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 
And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bear-skin  bed  1 
What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness  whirl 
Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen  girl ! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 

Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's  ear — 
But  he  drops  it  again.     "  Some  one  may  be  nigh, 
And  I  would  not  that  even  the  wolves  should  hear." 
He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin  belt — 
Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt; — 
Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the  Indian's  side, 
From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket  wide; 
And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to  raise. 

"  I  cannot " — he  mutters — "  did  he  not  save 

My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 

When  the  storm  came  down  from  Agioochook, 

And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the  tree-tops  shook — 

And  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rushing  snow, 

Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could  not  go, 

And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 

And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses  sleep! 

I  cannot  strike  him — Ruth  Bonython ! 

In  the  devil's  name,  tell  me — what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

Oh !  when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 

Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 

As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 

Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn — 

And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 

Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day — 

Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still — 

The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will! — 
But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 

Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 

Oft,  at  this  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  this  evil  part; 
And,  shielded  by  this  very  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 


MOGG  MEGONE.  19 

Ruth  starts  erect — with  bloodshot  eye, 

And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth, 

Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath!} 
In  the  red  tire-light: — "  Mogg  must  die! 
Give  me  the  knife  !  " — The  outlaw  turns, 

Shuddering  in  heart  and  limb,  away — 
But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 

And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strdbge  shadows  play. 
A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured,  in  light  and  shade, 

Plunging  down  in  the  darkness.     Hark,  that  cry ! 
Again — and  again — he  sees  it  fall — 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted  wall ! 

He  hears  quick  footsteps — a  shape  flite  by ! 
The  door  on  its  rusted  hinges  creaks : — 

'  Ruth — daughter  Ruth !  "  the  outlaw  shrieks, 
But  no  sound  comes  back — he  is  standing  alone 
By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Megone ! 

PART  II. 

'Tis  morning  over  Norridgewock — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms. 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there — 
And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 

Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves — 
The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone -like  foliage  darker  still, 

While  the  white  birch's  graceful  stem 
And  the  rough  walnut  bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  their  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
Q»  the  Jfold  ^fountain's,  shrubless  broTp 


20  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  gray  and  thunder  smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle,* 

While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 
That  nightly  with  his  slumbers  come, — 
The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreathing, 
The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breathing, 
The  winds  which  dipped,  the  stars  which  shone 
Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne ! 
And  round  the  Abbey's  shadowed  wall, 
At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing — 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing — 
And  hallowed  torch-light  falling  dim 
On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  of  gold, 
A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem 

When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this : 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go ; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them  flow. 
The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 
For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile ; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  never  more 

*  Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain  which  overlooks  Frenchman's  and  Penobscot  Bay, 
It  was  upon  this  island  that  the  Jesuits  made  their  earliest  settlement. 


MOGG  MEGONE.  21 

May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  west  ward- turning  eye 

A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie — 

Gems  of  the  waters  ! — with  each  hue 

Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 

Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 
Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 

And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 
A  moment  seen — a  moment  lost- 
Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed, 
The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed, 

Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 

Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 
And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 

As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 
Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 

There  sleep  Placentia's  group — and  there 

Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer; 

And  there,  beneath  the  sea- worn  cliff, 
On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 

The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock  boughs  between, 

Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 

Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book.* 

There,  gloomily  against  the  sky, 

The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high; 

And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 

Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air — 

Seen  from  afar,  like  some  strong  hold 

Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old ; 

And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin, 

Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katadin : 

And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 

The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 
And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 

Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 

Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 

Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 
Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 
Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away, 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec ! 

*  Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary  among  the  Iroquois,  mentions  that  the  Indians  believed 

d  of  a  bright  silver  chalice  which  he 
Lallamant,  •'  fear  us  as  the  greatest 


-  rauier  nennepin,  a  missionary  among  ine   iroquois,  n 

him  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  that  they  were  particularly  afraid  of  a  bright  silver  chalice  which  he 
had  in  his  possession.     *'  The  Indians,"  says  Pere  Jerome  ~ 


sorcerers,  on  earth,' 


22  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Of  the  down-trodden  Norridgewock— - 
In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast  flowing  life-blood  wet, 
For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet! 
Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands : 
No  shout  is  there — no  dance— no  song: 
The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe: 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye,  while 

Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his  blow. 
The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen  *  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  toNorridgewock, 
With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Harmon  of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come : 

They  have  left  their  boats— they  have  entered  the  wood, 
And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 

With  the  sound  of  the  ranger's  drum. 

On  the  brovr  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to  meet 
The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet — 
The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  drooping  grass, 
And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters  pass — 
A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 
Built  up  in  that  wrild  by  unskilled  hands; 
Yet  the  traveler  knows  it  a  place  of  prayer, 
For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there : 
And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to  be, 

Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed  day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are  said, 
Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the  dead, 
Well  might  that  traveler  start  to  see 

The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their  way 
From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river-shore, 

*  Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow  as  "  the  famous  warrior  and  chieftain  of 

wock."    He  was  killed  ia  the  attack,  pf  #$  English  upon  Norridgewock,  in  17*4, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  23 

And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel  door; 
And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 

And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending  there, 
While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over  these 

In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 
Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 
Like  a  shrouded  ghost,  the  Jesuit  *  stands. 
Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 

The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 

Anxiously  heeding  some  fearful  tale, 
Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 
That  stranger's  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 
And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn; 
Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 
O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine  brown; 
Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 
The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace, 
Which,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 
With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low 

That  scarce  it  meets  the  Jesuit's  ears — 
While  through  her  clasp'd  fingers  flow, 
From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 

Her  penitential  tears — 

*  Pere  Ralle,  or  Rasles,  was  one  of  the  most  zealous  and  indefatigable  of  that  band  of  Jesuit 
missionaries  who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  penetrated  the  forests  of  America, 
with  the  avowed  object  of  converting  the  heathen.  The  first  religious  mission  of  the  Jesuits, 
to  the  savages  in  North  America,  was  in  1611.  The  zeal  of  the  fathers  for  the  conversion  of 
the  Indians  to  the  Catholic  faith  knew  no  bounds.  For  this,  they  plunged  into  the  depths  of 
the  wilderness  ;  habituated  themselves  to  all  the  hardships  and  privations  of  the  natives ;  suf 
fered  sold,  hunger,  and  some  of  them  death  itself,  by  the  extremest  tortures.  Pere  Brebeuf, 
after  laboring  in  the  cause  of  his  mission  for  twenty  years,  together  with  his  companion,  Pere  Lal- 
lamant,  was  burned  alive.  1  o  these  might  be  added  the  names  of  those  Jesuits  who  were  put 
to  death  by  the  Iroquois — Daniel,  Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde,  Goupil,  Constantin,  and 
Liegeouis.  "  For  bed,"  says  Father  Lallamant,  in  his  Relation  de  ce  •  s'cst  dans  le  pays 
des  Hur.ns,  1640,  c.  3,  "  we  have  nothing  but  a  miserable  piece  of  bark  tree  ;  for  nourish 
ment,  a  handful  or  two  of  corn,  either  roasted  or  soaked  in  water,  whici.  dom  satisfies  our 
hunger;  and  after  all,  not  venturing  to  perform  even  the  ceremonies  of  our  religion,  without 
being  considered  as  sorcerers."  Their  success  among  the  natives,  however,  by  no  means 
equaled  their  exertions.  Pere  Lallamant  says — "  With  respect  to  adult  persons,  in  good  health, 
there  is  little  apparent  success ;  on  the  contrary,  there  have  been  nothing  but  storms  and  whirl 
winds  from  that  quarter." 

Sebastien  Ralle  established  himself,  sometime  about  the  year  1670,31  Norridgewock,  where 
he  continued  more  than  forty  years.  He  was  accused,  and  perhaps  not  without  justice,  of  ex 
citing  his  praying  Indians  against  the  English,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  enemies  not  only 
of  his  king,  but  also  of  the  Catholic  religion.  He  was  killed  by  the  English,  in  1724,  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross,  which  his  own  hands  had  planted.  This  Indian  church  was  broken  up,  and 
its  members  either  killed  outright  or  dispersed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew,  he  gives  the  following  account  of  his  church,  and 
his  own  labors.  •'  All  my  converts  repair  to  the  church  regularly  twice  every  day;  first,  very 
early  in  the  morning,  to  attend  mass,  and  again  in  the  evening,  to  assist  in  the  prayers  at  sun 
set.  As  it  is  necessary  to  fix  the  imagination  of  savages,  whose  attention  is  easily  distracted,  I 
have  composed  prayers,  calculated  to  inspire  them  with  just  sentiments  of  the  august  sacrifice 
of  our  altars :  they  chant,  or  at  least  recite  them  aloud,  during  mass.  Besides  preaching  to 
them  on  Sundays  and  Saints'  days,  I  seldom  let  a  working  day  pass,  without  making  a  concise 
exhortation,  for  the  purpose  of  inspiring  them  with  horror  at  those  vices  to  which  they  are  most 
addicted,  or  to  confirm  thsm  in  the  practice  of  some  particular  virtue."  Vide  Lettres  Edifi- 
antes  et  Cur.,  vol.  vi.,  p.  127. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

"  Oh  Father,  bear  with  me ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 

Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 
And  never  cool  again. 

Bear  with  me  while  1  speak — but  turn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while — 

The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile ; 

For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 

My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother!  sad  and  pale, 
Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 
And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 

As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray, 

Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 
And  tremble  in  the  gale ; 
Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness — not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept; 
And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 
That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own; 
And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 
My  idle  words,  and  petulance ; 

Reproving  with  a  tear — and,  while 
The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 

My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

'  Oh,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There  was  a  brightness  not  of  mirth — 
A  light,  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 
Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'Twas  like  the  hue  which  autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking-smile  of  Death ! 

"  Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 
When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus, — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south  wind's  expiring  sighs 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear. 

Tales  of  the  pure — the  good — the  wise— 
The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told ; — 
Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  fountains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  jock ; 
Of  gentle  Ruth — and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 
Of  her — Samaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 

Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 
Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyesl 

"  Slowly  she  faded.     Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile : 
And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread, 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed: 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And,  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 
The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  the  anguish  gone — 

She  slept  at  last  in  death ! 

"  Oh,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse  ? 

For,  oh,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I  lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree ! " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe — 

"  Jesu !  what  was  it  my  daughter  saw  ?  " 

"She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her  tread 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  warm  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead ! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death: 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,  which  spoke  of  early  days — 
A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill ; 
Oh  God !  I  feel  its  presence  still !  " 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign — 

"  How  passed  the  vision,  daughter  mine  ?' 

"  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
As  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine, 
And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light — 
So  scattering — melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed; 
But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 

Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye !  " 

"Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned  her 
From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 

To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 

Ah,  woe  for  me!  my  mother  died 

Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 


MOGG  MEGONE.  27 

Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside ; 
And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 
"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 
Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife  ; 
And — God  forgive  him!  left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling  place, 

The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  floods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream,  where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 

"  There  came  a  change.     The  wild,  glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fast, 
A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 

Sweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 
A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power  to  wake 
Both  fear  and  love — to  awe  and  charm ; 

'Twas  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm — 
Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering  eye, 
And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey ! 

"  Fear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  ere  long 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong. 
Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 

A  poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste, 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening  blood, 
And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 


28  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  young  lip  with  a  dream's  caress, — 
The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 
Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love 
Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart  lent, 
Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and  form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow  worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 
The  shrine  was  cold,  at  which  I  knelt ; 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  ray  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning  brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

"There  came  a  voice — it  checked  the  tear — 

In  heart  and  soul  it  wrought  a  change ; — 
My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear; 

It  whispered  of  revenge ! 
A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 

All  lingering  tenderness  away ; 
And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 

In  childhood's  better  day, 
Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 
In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 

"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 
Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilderness 
He  tracked  his  victim ;  and,  at  last, 
Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and  fast, 
Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 

The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  Oh  God  !  with  what  an  awful  power 
I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 

And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 
Its  ghost-like  memories  I 


MOGG  MEGONE.  29 

And  then  I  felt  —  alas  !  too  late  — 

That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 

That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had  thrown 

O'er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known  no  change 
And  still,  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
"With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge  ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn  ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile  — 
The  still,  green  places  where  we  met  — 
The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word  — 
The  smile  —  the  embrace  —  the  tone,  which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

"  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 

With  what  a  deadly  hate,  and  deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 
What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done, 
And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept. 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine  "  — 

"Ha!  what  didst  thou  ?  "  the  Jesuit  cries, 
Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 

And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  his  eyes, 
With  the  other  he  makes  the  holy  sign  — 
"  I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm;  — 
With  heart  as  steeled  —  with  nerves  as  firm: 

He  never  woke  again  !  " 

"  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak  —  I  would  know  that  victim's  name." 

"Father,"  she  gasped,  "a  chieftain,  known 
As  Saco's  Sachem  —  MOGG  MEGONE  !  " 

Pale  priest  !    What  proud  and  lofty  dreams, 
What  keen  desires,  what  cherished  schemes, 
What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  b    that  chieftain's  fall! 


y      a 
pledged, 


Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 


80  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

To  lift  the  hatehet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire? 
Who  now  the  Tarrautine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ?* 

Three  backward  steps  the  Jesuit  takes — 

His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes :  •    • 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear — 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely  die!" 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 

Checked  midway  in  the  fearful  chase, 
When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 
The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 

Between  him  and  his  hiding-place ; 
While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 
Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 
"  Save  me,  O  holy  man!  " — her  cry 

Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 

Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 
Thrilling  with  mortal  agony ; 
Her  hands  are  clasping  the  Jesuit's  knee, 

And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his  own ; — 
"  Off,  woman  of  sin  ? — nay,  touch  not  me 

With  those  fingers  of  blood ; — begone ! " 
With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the  form 
That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden  worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 

With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 
For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 
In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 

And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh 
For  each  vain  reliance  given 

To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 

*  The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably  never  been  correctly  delineated.  By  his  brethren  of 
)he  Romish  Church,  he  has  been  nearly  apotheosized.  On  the  other  hand,  our  Puritan  his 
torians  have  represented  him  as  a  demon  in  human  form.  He  was  undoubtedly  sincere  in  his 
devotion  to  the  interests  of  his  church,  and  not  overscrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  advancing 
those  interests.  "  The  French,"  says  the  author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford,  "  after 
the  peace  of  1713,  secretly  promised  to  supply  the  Indians  with  arms  and  ammunition,  if  they 
would  renew  hostilities.  Their  principal  agent  was  the  celebrated  Ralle,  the  French  Jesuit."— 
p.  215. 


MOGG  MEGONE.  31 


PABT  III. 

AH,  weary  Priest ! — with  pale  hands  pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  lifelong  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  hold  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it ! 
Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 

Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along — 
Fading  hopes,  for  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer ; — 
Schemes  which  heaven  may  never  bless — 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church ; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyf ul  from  their  years  of  mourning, 

'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 

Hark !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird — 

Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high! 
Every  wolf -cave  of  the  hills — 

Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 

Rock  and  dell  and  river  verge — 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to  die, 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh. 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace — answered  well 
By  the  Indians'  mocking  cry  and  yell — 
The  bark  of  dogs — the  squaw's  mad  scream — 


32  vfHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  dash  of  paddles  along  the  stream — 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around  the  church's  eaves — 
And  the  gride  of  hatchets,  fiercely  thrown, 
On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 

Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 

Spotted  and  streaked  with  human  gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 

Within  the  chapel  door. 
"Ha — Bomazeen! — In  God's  name  say, 
What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody  fray  ?  " 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
"  Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen? 
Where  are  De  Rouville  *  and  Castine, 
And  where  the  braves  of  Sawga's  queen  ?  " 

"  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons  ago ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 
The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridgewock ; 
Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid  1 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 

Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

« 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after  trace, 

Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other  chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 

For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished  life — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 

And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray ; 

Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 

And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 

On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son ; 
For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  done — 
Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage  flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagadahock, 

In  the  Church's  service  won. 
No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 

*  Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and  unsparing  enemy  of  the  English.  He  was  the  leader 
of  the  combined  French  and  Indian  forces  which  destroyed  Deerfield,  and  massacred  its  inhabi 
tants,  in  1703.  He  was  afterwards  killed  in  the  attack  upon  Haverhill.  Tradition  says  that  on 
examining  his  dead  body,  his  head  and  face  were,  found  to  be  perfectly  smooth  without  the 
slightest  appearance  of  ha.ir  or  beard. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks : 

"  Cowesass — cowesass — ta which  wessaseen  ?* 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen — 

My  father's  heart  is  the  heart-  of  a  squaw, 

But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not  thaw : 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 

A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  sagamore, 
"When  he  paddles  across  the  western  lake 

A  vrith  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the  spirit's  shore. 
Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich  wessaseen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen !  " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the  walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls; 
While  at  his  side  the  NorridgeWock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes — 
Till,  cleft  and -torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"  So  fare  all  eaters  (,['  the  frog! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog  ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome !  " 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 
Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave  men l  the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
The  unfeeling  taunt — the  brutal  jeer; — 
Spurn — for  he  sees  ye  not — in  wrath, 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death ; — 

Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  your  zeal, 
And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust: 

The  dead  man  cannot  feel! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 
With  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 

How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 

Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 
Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 

Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword ! 

Quenching1,  with  reckless  hand,  in  blood, 

Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God ; 

Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven 
Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 

Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

*  Ctnvtsass  ? — tawhich  wessaseen  ?    Are  you  afraid  ? — why  fear  you  ? 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  holy  only  enter  in ! 
Oh!  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills' 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river — 
Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 

In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 

The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war; 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell. 

Through  the  gun-smoke  wreathing  white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers'  sight 

A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 

For  a  moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 

And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 

Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

From  the  world  of  light  and  breath,. 
Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 

Spectre-like  it  vanisheth! 

Wretched  girl !  one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never,. 
Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she  wolf's  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day, 
And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weeping! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard  thee, 
Doth  thy  heavenly  Father  guard  thee — 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 

Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 

Crying  in  the  ear  $f  God, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  35 

Oave  the  earth  its  primal  stain — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting   guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth; — 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed  and  wild, 
He  regardeth  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child ! 


'Tis  springtime  on  the  eastern  hills! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead  leaves 
The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  ^glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  brandies  of  the  dull  gray  wood ; 
Out  from  its  sunned  and  sheltered  nooks 
Tire  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks ; 

The  southwest  wind  is  warmly  blowing, 
.And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 

Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A  band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood — 
The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress; 
And  with  them  one  whose  bearded  cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 

A  wanderer  from  the  shores  of  France. 
A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which  girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 

'The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace; 
YeJ,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray  hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  bent 

The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 
Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on : 

fire  of  conquest,  and  the  mood 
Of  chivalry  have  gone. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

A  mournful  task  is  his — to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  those 

Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 

When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 
Of  all  unsparing  foes. 

Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 

Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 

Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 

Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgewocks 

Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 
For  firm  defiance  or  swift  attack ; 

And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the  tie 
Which  held  the  stern  self -exile  back 

From  lapsing  into  savagery ; 

Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 
Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay 
Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 

Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 

Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din 

Ushered  his  birth  hour  gayly  in, 

And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll, 

The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark !  from  the  foremost  of  the  band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 

Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting  fell. 
No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there  ; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare  : 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a  sound 

Of  breathing  life  —but  there  comes  not  one, 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's  bound  ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened  ground, 

White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 
And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 
And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight's  close, 
And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  to  bless 
The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and  dank ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Norridgewock, 

Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  rock, 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 
Blessed  Mary  ! — who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple  tree  ? 
The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 
But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not  ; 
The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 
From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear  ; 
Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes  ; 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  FENNACOOK.  3? 

The  black -bird's  wing  against  her  brushes, 
And  sweetly  through  the  hazel  bushes 
The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes  ; — 
God  save  her  I  will  she  sleep  ahvay  ? 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper  : 

"Wake,  daughter — wake  !  " — but  she  stirs  no  limb  : 
The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed  and  dim  ; 

And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be  no  deeper, 
Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 

And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes  forth 

To  the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the  graves  of  earth. 

RUTH  BONYTHON   IS  DEAD  ! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.* 

WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 

Through  the  rough  northern  country.     We  had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 

Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 

The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  aisles 

Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 

Of  the  bright  waters.     We  had  checked  our  steeds, 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 

Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 

Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 

Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 

Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 

Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 

We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 

Tas^elled  with  clouds  light- woven  by  the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  tne  abutting  crags 

O'er-roofmg  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco  :  and,  bewildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 

*  Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sachem  of  Saugus  married  a  daughter  of  Passacon- 
away,  the  great  Pennacook  chieftain,  in  1662.  The  wedding  took  place  at  Pennacook  (now 
Concord,  N.  H.),  and  the  ceremonies  closed  with  a  great  feast.  According  to  the  usages  of  the 
chiefs,  Passaconaway  ordered  a  select  number  of  his  men  to  accompany  the  newly-married 
couple  to  the  dwelling  of  the  husband,  where  in  turn  there  was  another  great  feast.  Some  time 
after,  the  wife  of  Winnepurkit  expressing  a  desire  to  visit  her  father's  house,  was  permitted  to 
go  accompanied  by  a  brave  escort  of  her  husband's  chief  men.  But  when  she  wished  to  return, 
her  father  sent  a  messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her  husband,  and  asking  him  to  come  and 
take  her  away.  He  returned  for  answer  that  he  had  escorted  his  wife  to  her  father's  house  in 
a  style  that  became  a  chief,  and  that  now  if  she  wished  to  return,  her  father  must  send  her  back 
in  the  same  way.  This  Passaconaway  refused  to  c.o,  nnd  it  is  said  that  here  terminated  the  con 
nection  of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief.  —  Vide  Morton's  New  Canaan. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and  atop 

Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and  thick 

As  meadow  mole  hills — the  far  sea  of  Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills  ; 

Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 

Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 

Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 

Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 

By  deechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 

From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 

Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 

Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines 

Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire  ;  and  its  beams 

At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 

The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel's  chance 
Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north  hills  : — 
A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close  thronged  streets- 
Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 
Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to  take 
Its  chances  all  as  God-sends  ;  and  his  brother, 
Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial  heart, 
Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true. 
In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  utidimmed 
By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 
Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 
The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 
Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the  noon, 
Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy  leaves, 
And  tenderest  moonrise.     Twas,  in  truth,  a  study, 
To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 
A  decent  and  professional  gravity 
And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which  often 
Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 
Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  unshrined 
The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 
Left  us  the  man.     A  shrewd,  sagacious  merchant, 
To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Crawford's  inn, 
Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 
And  sales  of  cotton  had  a  deeper  meaning 
Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful  mountains 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOCK.  39 

Glorified  by  the  sunset ; — and  his  daughter, 

A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too  long 

Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachusetts'  bay, 

With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring's  opening  leaves 

And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on  its  stem, 

Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howling  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 
Who  ha.d  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which  whirled 
In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle, 
Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in  the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet ;  whose  laugh  was  heard 
Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake's  green  islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and  visibly  drooped 
Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that  quiet  inn 
Which  looks  from  Conway  on  the  mountains  piled 
Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 
Like  summer  thunderclouds,  we  made  our  home  : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping  hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  raindrops,  all  day  long 
Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 
The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 
Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 
Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps  ; 
Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 
Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 
Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 
From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 
As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire 
Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest  wind 
Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white  hair 
Of  the  sage  fisher.     And,  if  truth  be  told, 
Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  sermons, 
His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds 
For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness — 
The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred  text 
Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in  his  low, 
Deep  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 
Of  poetry — the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney — the  sweet  songs, 
Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 
Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal  Mount 
Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortnl  in  his  lays. 


40  VvTIIT PIER'S  POEMS. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 

I  searched  "our  landlord's  proffered  library  : 

A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood  pictures 

Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them — 

Watts'  un melodious  psalms — Astrology's 

Last  home,  a  musty  file  of  Almanacs, 

And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 

And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 

A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 

Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 

Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 

In  the  old  time  upon  Merrimack, 

Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 

Of  her  prerogative — the  right  divine 

Of  youth  and  beauty, — bade  us  versify 

The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 

Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 

To  eacli  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 

With  absolute  will.     So,  like  the  cavaliers 

Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 

Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 

Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 

The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 

From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our  rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 

Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 

To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstances — 

The  associations  of  time,  scene  and  audience — 

Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 

The  chambers  of  my  memory.     Yet  I  trust 

That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in  thought, 

Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world, 

That  our  broad  land — our  sea-like  lakes,  and  mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds, — our  rivers  overhung 

By  forests  which  have  known  no  other  change 

For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 

Of  leaves — our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 

Which  the  old  poets  sang  of — should  but  figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 

As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the  privileges, 

Rights  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 

A  Yankee  Paradise — unsung,  unknown, 

To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 

Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 

Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 

Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car, — will  look  kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 

Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 

To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade  : 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


I.  —  THE  MERRIMACK. 

OH,  child  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose  springs 
Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff  -eagle's  wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild  waters  shine, 
Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing  through  the  dwarf  pine. 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold  and  so  lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked  mother  of  stone, 
By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales  wide  and  free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to  the  sea  ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed  in  the  breeze  : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on  thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak  -shaded,  by  Amoskeag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  unshorn  , 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled  with  corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer  than  these, 
And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had  rung, 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadows  had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out  from  the  wood 
The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook  stood, 
There  glided  the  corn-dance  —  the  Council  fire  shone, 
And  against  the  red  war-post  the  hatchet  was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes,  and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white  perch  their  baited  lines  flung  ; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there  the  shy  maid 
Wove  her  many-hued  baskets  and  bright  wampum  braid. 

Oh,  Stream  of  the  Mountains  !  if  answer  of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of  mine, 
Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged  banks  a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which  have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of  steel  ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees  ! 

II.—  THE  BASHABA.* 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 
And  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound 

*  This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of  New  England  gave  to  two  or  three  of  their  prin 
cipal  chiefs,  to  whom  all  their  inferior  sagamores  acknowledged  allegiance.  Passaconaway 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  these  chiefs.  His  residence  was  at  Pennacook.  —  Mass.  Hist.  ColL, 


4:2  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 

A  glance  upon  tradition's  shadowy  ground, 

Led  by  the  few  pale  lights,  which,  glimmering  round 
That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast ; 

And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 

Let  fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams  shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 
On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 

Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 
And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly-checkered  light, 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down, 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine- wood  made  ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild  flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba, 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 

vol.  iii.,  pp.  21,  22.  "  He  was  regarded,"  says  Hubbard,  "  asa  great  sorcerer,  and  his  fame  was 
widely  spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  could  cause  a  green  leaf  to  grow  in  winter,  trees  to 
dance,  water  to  burn,  etc.  He  was,  undoubtedly,  one  of  those  shrewd  and  powerful  men 
whose  achievements  are  always  regarded  by  a  barbarous  people  as  the  result  of  supernatural  aid. 
The  Indians  gave  to  such  the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and  wisdom,  and  to  these  the  Devill  appeareth  more 
familiarly  than  to  others." — Winslow1  s  Relation. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.  43 

Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow  ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  011  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter, 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban- 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  a-bed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze  ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears  or  sees, — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood"; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood  ! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  boM 


44  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence, 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses, 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces. 
And  the  high  stars  in  their  courses 

Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 

III.— THE  DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men — the  yell 

Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed — 
The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell — 

The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the  dead  ! — 
All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had  known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's  dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  Summer  hours — 

The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his  shell — 
On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened  sunshine  fell ! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And,  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mold, 

Is  slow  to  feeVand  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 
And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  his  foremost  tread. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  FENNACOOK.  $£ 

Yet,  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more, 

And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 
And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 

Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 
Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 

Their  sunset  dance  arid  moonlit  play  ; 
No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  sometimes 

The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 

Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 
So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 

A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young  being  melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 

Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird — 
A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To  meet  him  when  his  step  was  heard — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark, — 
With  these  the  household-god*  had  graced  his  wigwam  walL 

Child  of  the  forest ! — strong  and  free. 

Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  Winter's  moon 

Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter's  way  ; 
And  dazzling  in  the  Summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its  shower  of  spray  ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snowflakes  fell,  unquestioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 

With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 
In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 

The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 
Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest 

"  The  Indians,"  says  Roger  Williams,  "  have  a  god  whom  they  call  Wetuornanit,  who  pf» 
sides  over  the  household." 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway  ; 
Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Nature  lay  I 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

.    Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 

To  feel  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree 

The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 
But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought, 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and  sees  but  feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 

Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair, 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweet-briar  on  the  hillside  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a  sister  rose! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 

Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw, — 

The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 
Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 

Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 
Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home — the  lover  and  the  wife !, 

IV. — THE  WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  Autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba's  wigwam  glowed  with  light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes  hung. 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots  swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood  fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and  shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  fire-light  played, 
On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook 
Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the  pine, 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights  shine.. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  South  East 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds  shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  lake. 

From  Ammonoosuck's  mountain  pass 
Wild  as  his  home  came  Chepewass  ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge  ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuok  brook, 
And  salmon  spear'd  in  the  Contoocook  ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic, 
And  small  wild  hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills  shaken, 
Cramberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog  : 

And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase  which  stands 
In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands,* 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

*  There  are  rocks  in  the  River  at  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  w 
says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored  and  concealed  their  corn. 


48  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp  locks  flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glowing, 
Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 
Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek  ! 

V.— THE  NEW  HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs, 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern  edge, 

Steep,  cavernous  hillside,  where  black  hemlock  spurs 
And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind-swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glaz'd  ice,  or  bristling  rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down  upon  the  snows. 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched  away, 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 

O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a  day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck  sea  ; 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.  49 

And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 
The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling  smokes, 

No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the  snow, 
No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hillside  oaks, 

No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below  ; 
Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and  view, 
Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled  dark-eyed  Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home  ;  and  freshly  all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.     As  o'er  some  granite  wall 

Soft  vine  leaves  open  to  the  moistening  dew 
And  warm  bright  sun,  the  love  of  that  young  wife 
Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew  and  warmth  of  life. 

* 
The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy  shore, 

The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  between, 
A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young  love  seen, 
For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary  plain, 
Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hunter  chief  again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of  feeling 
Repaid  her  welcoming  smile,  and  parting  kiss, 

No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  concealing, 
Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  settled  pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage  satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 

Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side  ; 
That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had  flown, 

Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his  bride  ; 
That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trembling  heard 
Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look  or  word. 

For  she  has  learned  the  maxims  of  her  race, 

Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a  slave 
And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and  brave — 
The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they  incur, 
Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  requires  of  her. 

She  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun  at  last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the  rills, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  southwest  passed 
Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills, 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green  once  more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell  round  the 
Sachem's  door. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners  came,. 

With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus  chief  ; 
Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's  name, 

That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and  leaf, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and  the  rain, 
Young  Weetainoo  might  greet  her  lonely  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 
And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering  whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 

Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked  Pennacook. 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong  water, 
The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 
Up  to  her  father's  home  of  pride  and  strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  consequence. 


So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetamit's  *  hand, 

A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 
Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  procession  went. 
Till  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  between, 
A  broad,  clear,  mountain  stream,  the  Merrimack  was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn — 

The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 
Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed-corn, 

Young  children  peering  through  the  wigwam  doors, 
Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 
Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo  again. 

VI. — AT  PENNACOOK. 

.  THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest ;  and  the  streams  most  sweet, 
Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank, 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea- watch,  Home's  hearth-light 
Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging  through  the  night ; 
And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  homesick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
And,  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye, 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie  ! 

*  The  Spring  God.— See  Roger  Williams's  Key,  etc. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor  ! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a  smile. 

The  long  bright  days  of  Summer  swiftly  passed, 
The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  Autumn's  rising  blast, 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrise  rime 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter  time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weetamoo, 

Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's  canoe  ; 

No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 

The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife  sought. 

At  length  a  runner,  from  her  father  sent 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam  went : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus, — in  the  woods  the  dove, 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love." 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 

"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 

Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam  round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train 

And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
"  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Pennacook,  "  no  more 
Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 

"  Go — let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  : 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk  ! — let  him  dig  his  clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Aga warns, 

"  Or  coward  Nipmucks  ! — may  his  scalp  dry  black 
In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her  back." 
He  shook  his  clenched  hand  toward  the  ocean  wave, 
While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council  gave. 

Alas  poor  bride  ! — can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart  ? 
Or  cold  self -torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty  flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths  ;  with  stifled  voice  and  low 


52  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'ercrossed,, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly  born 

Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 

Or,  from  the  east  across  her  azure  field, 

Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winiiepurkit  came  not — on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat, 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar — 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a  chief ! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred  fights, 

The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long  hunting  nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud,  of  woman's  weak  distress, 

Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneliness? 

VII. — THE  DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a  water-course — each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new  made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current's  strain, 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to  float, 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar ! 

Down  the  vexed  center  of  that  rushing  tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening  either  side, 
The  foam- white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light  canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 

On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 

Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  down  the  troubled  stream — 

Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ?— was  it  truth  or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 
The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless  oar, 
The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er  the  water — 
He  knew  them  all — woe  for  the  Sachem's  daughter  ! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.  53 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's  door, 
To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sear  leaf  whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled  up  ices  hurled, 
Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below — but,  where  was  Weetamoo? 

VIII.— SONG  OF  INDIAN  WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  spring-bird  has  flown, 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on  our  shore 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  I  * — we  hear  it  no  more  ! 

Oh,  dark  water  Spirit ! 
We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  firs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 

Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore, 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  I — We  see  her  no  more ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore, 
Mat  wonck  'kunna-monee  I — We  see  her  no  more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 
Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone  ! — 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  before — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  ! — They  hear  us  no  more  ! 

Oh  mighty  So  wanna  !  f 
Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is  o'er 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  ! — We  see  her  no  more  ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaveg  beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly-flo\*fcg  tide, 

*  "  Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."     We  shall  see  thee  or  her  no  more. —  Vide  Roger  Williams's 

e$  to  the  Indian  Language. 

t  'The  Great  South  West  God."— See  Roger  Williams's  Observations,  etc. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause  and  swell 
On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and  fell. 
Nature's  wild  music — sounds  of  wind-swept  trees, 
The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the  breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep  and  strong, 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell  song. 


LEGENDARY. 


THE  MERRIMACK. 

[  "  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river,  far  to  the  South,  which  they  call  Merrimack."- 
DK  MONTS,  1604.] 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining 

.sand, 

And       yonder     island's      wave- 
smoothed  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,   stooping  from  the"  eastern 

gale ;  * 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters 

broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts 

of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking     the    dull    continuous 

wood, 
The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his 

flood  ; 
Mingling     that      clear     pellucid 

brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  springtime's  sun  and 

shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 
And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  "  The  Smile 

of  Heaven,"f 
Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain 

side — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 


STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly 

still 

The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill  ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long 

defile, 
Wave,   wood,  and  spire  beneath 

them  smile. 

I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And    following    down   its   wavy 

line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with 

thine. 

There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,   which   thy   returning 

tide 

As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  be 
gem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not 

a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean 

gale; 

No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor    gray    wall    sloping  to  thy 

shores  ; 
Nor  farmhouse    with   its  maple 

shade, 

Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath     this     gush    of     sunset 

light. 


On    yonder    rocky    cape,    which 

braves 
The    stormy    challenge     of    the 

waves, 


Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 

*  The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning  the  government  of  the  colony  in  Virginia, 
in  his  capacity  of  "  Admiral  of  New  England,"  made  a  careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Pen- 
obscot  to  Cape  Cod,  in  the  summer  of  1614. 

t  Lake  Winnipiseogee — The  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit — the  source  of  one  of  the  branches 
of  the  Merrimack, 


THE  MERRIMACK. 


55 


Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish 

wood, 

The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag  ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy 

fold 

Saint  George's  crimson  cross  un 
rolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet 

blare, 

And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his 

story  ;  * 
Of  her,    the     flower    of    Islam's 

daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's 

waters — 
Who,   when  the  chance  of  war 

had  bound 
The     Moslem     chain     his    limbs 

around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron 

chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours 

of  pain, 

And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  ! — the  yellow  tight  no 

more 

Streams  down  on  wave  and  ver 
dant  shore ; 

And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and 

thin 

The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky 

rim, 

Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light 

set 

Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star 

and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy 

veil! 


Home   of 
stood 


my    fathers  !— I  have 


Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly 

flood: 

Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked    down    the  Appalachian 

peak 

On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The    Mohawk's    softly     winding 

stream ; 

The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of 

pine; 
And      autumn's     rainbow-tinted 

banner 
Hang    lightly    o'er    the  Susque- 

hanna  ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might 

be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back 

to  thee ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's 

sound 
Of    murmuring    on    its    pebbly 

bound, 

The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  j 
And  saw,   amidst   the  curtained 

gloom 

And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy    sunset    scenes    before  him 

pass  ; 

As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness 

grew, 

Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morn 
ing  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty 

swept 
Whatever    Memory's     mourners 

wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel 

kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long 

had  slept ; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to 

trace, 
More  near,   some    dear  familiar 

face, 

He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


:;:  Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory,  now  called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Tragabizanda, 
jn  memory  of  his  young  and  beautiful  mistress  of  that  name,  who,  while  he  was  a  captive  at 
Constantinople,  like  Desdemona,  "loved  him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed." 


5G 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


[Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  fragment  ot  a  statue,  rudely  chiselled  from  dark  gray  stone, 
as  found  in  the  town  of  Bradford,  on  the  Merrimack.  Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to  con 
jecture.  The  fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New  England,  some  centuries  before  the 


discoveries  of  Columbus,  is  now  very  generally  admitted.] 


GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent 
Past  ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady 
chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of 
Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  un 
shapely  block? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  un 
taught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline 
wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  rny  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm 

beam  : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing 

oar 

The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  ; 
And  cultured  field  and  peopled 

town 
Slope    to    its    willowed    margin 

down. 
Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is 

bringing 
The  mellow  sound  of 'church-bells 

ringing, 
And  rolling    wheel,     and     rapid 

jar 
Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless 

car, 
And    voices  from    the    wayside 

near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my 

ear, 

A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone — 
My  thoughts  are  with  the   Past 

alone ! 
A  change  !— The  steepled  town  no 

more 
Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged 

shore  ; 
Like    .palace-domes   in     sunset's 

cloud, 


Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion 

proud  ! 
Spectrally     rising     where    the}*- 

stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  : 
Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 
I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand  : 
It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured 

hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill ; 
And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to 

throw 
Its  wild    arms  o'er    the  stream 

below. 
Unchanged,    alone,     the     same 

bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever  I 
I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 
Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go ; 
I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry. 
The  wild  bird's  scream  goes  thrill 
ing  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 
The    deer    is  stooping  down   to 

drink. 


But  hark  ! — from  wood  and  rock 
flung  back, 

What  sound  comes  up  the  Mer 
rimack  ? 

What  sea- worn  barks  are  those 
which  throw 

The  light  spray  from  each  rush 
ing  prow  ? 

Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's 
blast 

Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining 
mast  ? 

Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale 
sun 

Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 

Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty 
sweep 

Round  icy  drift,  and  headland 
steep. 

Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Loch- 
lin's  daughters 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


57 


Have  watched  them  fading  o'er 

the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist 

and  spray. 
Like  white-winged   sea-birds  on 

their  way  ! 
Onward  they   glide—and  now  I 

view 
Their    iron-armed    and  stalwart 

crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue 

eye. 

Turned  to  green  earth  and  sum 
mer  sky  : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has 

cast  aside 
Its    cumbering    vast    of  shaggy 

hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm 

air, 
Streams    back    the     Norsemen's 

yellow  hair. 

I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I 

hear, 

Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To     saga's     chant,    and    Runic 

rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Skald  has 

sung, 

His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or    muttered    low  at    midnight 

hour 
Round  Odin's    mossy    stone    of 

power. 
The  wolf    beneath    the    Arctic 

moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling 

rune  ; 
The  Gaal  has  heard  its  stormy 

swell, 

The  light  Frank  knows  its  sum 
mons  well ; 

lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it    sounding  o'er  the 

sea, 
And  swept  with  hoary  beard  and 

hair 
His    altar's    foot     in    trembling 

prayer ! 

Tis  past— the   'wildering    vision 
dies 


In    darkness    on    my    dreaming 

eyes  ! 

The  forest  vanishes  in  air — 
Hill-slope    and   vale    lie   starkly 

bare  ; 

I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  : 
The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  j 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserkar  or  idol  grim — 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Of  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 
Or  love  awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not — for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This    glance   upon    its  darkness 

cast, 

My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who    fashioned    so  the    human 

mind, 

That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  be 
hind 

A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth ; 
Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again — 
The  Present  lose   in  what  hath 

been, 
And  in    their    primal    freshness 

show 

The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By    which   the    eternal    will    is 

wrought, 
Whose  impulse   fills  anew  with 

breath 

The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes 

lent, 
To    mortal    musings    sometimes 

sent, 

To  whisper— even  when  it  seems 
But      Memory's      phantasy      of 

dreams — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe 

and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


58  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise  to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked  the  spoil  away, — 
Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  handmaid  free  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars  ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the  long  night  time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  Autumn's  early  rirne. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by  : 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the  sky  ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea  ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the  fold  ! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there — the  shrinking  and  the  shame ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me  came  : 
"  Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly  !  "  the  wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant  street  ? 
Where  be  the  youths,  whose  glances  the  summer  Sabbath  through 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew  ? 

"Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra? — Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright  hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee  kind  words  are 

spoken, 

Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing  boys  are  broken, 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  Autumn  the  youthful  hunters  braid. 

"  Oh  !  weak,  deluded  maiden  ! — by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  rollers  an  evil  path  to  tread  ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and  sound  ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sack-cloth-bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine  ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tailscourgings,  and  from  the  pillory  lame, 
Jlejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in  their  shame. 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK.  59 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee? — a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to  the  grave ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !  " 

Oh  ! — ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feei,  oh,  Helper  of  the  weak  ! — that  Thou  indeed  \vert  there  t 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison-shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies  ! — for  the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit  melt ; 
When,  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan  !  "  was  the  language  of  my  heart, 
Arid  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning  ;  again  the  sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my  lonely  cell ; 
The  hoar  frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street  I  passed  ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon  my  cheek, 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs  grew  weak  : 
"  Oh,  Lord  !  support  thy  handmaid  ;  and  from  her  soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare — the  weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered  like  a  cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering  words  like  these : 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving  kindness  whose  power  is  over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear  lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at  hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  S9  ddle,  with  laugh  and  scoff  and  jeer  \ 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  fr»Om  my  lii»s  the  senl  of  silence  broke. 
As  if  through  woman'?  weakness  a  warning  spirit  spoke. 


eo  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

I  cried,  "  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the  weak  ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  1) earth-stones — go  turn  the.  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid  the  flock  ! " 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a  deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger  spread  ; 
"Good  people, "quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "  heed  not  her  words 

so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her — the  Devil  owns  his  child  !  " 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff  turning  said  : 

"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker  maid? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains  ;  and  when  again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !  " — no  voice,  no  sign  replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words  met  my  ear  : 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and  dear  !  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his  eye  ; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea  : 

"  Pile  my  ships  with  bars  of  silver — pack  with  coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  the  keel-piece  up  the  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  ! — I  would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child  away  !  " 

"  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their  cruel  laws  !  " 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's  just  applause. 
"  Like  the  herdsmen  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver  sold  ?  " 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half  way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate  and  scorn  ; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle  rein,  and  turned  in  silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul ; 

Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his  parchment 

roll 
"Good  friends,"  he  said,  "since  both  have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the 

priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well  released." 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKLS.  61 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me  go  my  way  ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  ! — to  Him  all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  His  handmaid  free  ; 
All  praise  to  him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the  poor  is  laid  ! 

Sing,  oh,  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving — pour  forth  the  grateful  psalm  ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men  of  m-^ng, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud  and  lay  His  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and  devour  : 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise, — the  poor  in  heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save  1 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS.* 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

*  Polan,  a  chief  of  the  Sokokis  Indians,  the  original  inhabitants  of  the  country  lying  between 
Agamenticus  and  Casco  Pay,  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  at  Windham,  on  the  Sebago  lake,  in  the 
spring  of  1756.  He  claimed  all  the  lands  on  both  sides  of  the  Presumpscot  River  to  its  m»uth 
at  Casco,  as  his  own.  He  was  shrewd,  subtle,  and  brave.  After  the  white  men  had  retired, 
the  surviving  Indians  "  swayed  "  or  bent  down  a  young  tree  until  its  roots  were  turned  up, 
placed  the  body  of  their  chief  beneath  them,  and  then  released  the  tree  to  spring  back  to  its 
former  position. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garb  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid, 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS.  63 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast.* 

'Tis  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent. 
The  beechen  tree  stands  up  unbent — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument  ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace  ; 

O  !  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  ! 

And  who  shall  deem  tlie  spot  unblest, 
Where  nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild  flowers  blow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed  ? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  !  * 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound — 
A;id  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

*  The  Sokokis  were  early  converts  to  the  Catholic  faith.     Most  of  them,  prior  to  the  year 
1756,  had  removed  to  the  French  settlements  on  the  St.  Francois. 

*  The  brutal  and  unchristian  spirit  of  the  early  settlers  of  New  England  toward  the  red  man 
is  strikingly  illustrated  in  the  conduct  of  the  man  who  shot  down  the  Sokokis  chief.     He  used 
to  say  he  always  noticed  the  anniversary  cf  that  exploit,  as  "  the  day  on  which  he  sent  the 
devil  a  present." — Williamson's  History  of  Maine. 


64: 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment  ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child  ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings  ; 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan — 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 


ST.  JOHN. 


"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  ! 

Bear  homeward  again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  *  had  look'd 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well 
And  had  cursed  her  while  pass 
ing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan,f 

Of  Papists  abhorr'd, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 


They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
Oh  !  well  sped  La  Tour  ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane  trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
44  Now,   why    from  yon    battle 
ments' 

Speaks  not  my  love ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 


*  The  settlement  of  the  Jesuits  on  the  island  of  Mount  Desert  was  called  St.  Saviowr. 
t  The  isle  of  Monhegan  was  one  of  the  first  settled  on  the  coast  of  Main*. 


ST.  JOHN. 


Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thunder'd  no  gun  ! 

But,  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman, 

Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  ?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  short-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

4<  Half- veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  !  . 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 


"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  bread)  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment— and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazon'd  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"  Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I'd  free  her  again  !  " 

"  Alas,  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  ! n 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  stagger'd  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again  : 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 

Give  way  I  "  cried  Estienne, 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creek-side 

Her  fishers  shall  throng ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 

O  !  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There    were    waves   in  the   sul  • 
shine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


06  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


PENTUCKET. 

CThe  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimack,  called  by  the  Indians  Pentucket,  was  for  nearly 
seventeen  years  a  frontier  town,  and  during  thirty  years  endured  all  the  horrors  of  savage  war 
fare.  In  the  year  1708,  a  combined  body  of  French  and  Indians,  under  the  command  of  De 
Challions,  and  Hertel  de  Rouville,  the  famous  and  bloody  sacker  of  Deerfield,  made  an  attack 
upon  the  village,  which  at  that  time  contained  only  thirty  houses.  Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were 
massacred,  and  a  still  larger  number  made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy  also  fell,  and 
among  them  Hertel  de  Rouville.  The  minister  of  the  place,  Benjamin  Rolfe,  was  killed  by  a 
shot  through  his  own  door.] 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  West, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-wall'd  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretch'd  up  and  down  on  either  Jiand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken'd  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravel'd  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 
Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough — 
The  milkmaid  carrol'd  by  her  cow — 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallow'd  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate! 

Hours  pass'd  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hush'd  grouping  of  a  dream. 


PENTUCKET. 

Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound — 
No  bark  of  fox — nor  rabbit's  bound — 
Nor  stir  of  wings — nor  waters  flowing — 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 

Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 

What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ? — 

Charr'd  tree- stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 

No — through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glow'd, 

Dark  human  forms  in  sunshine  show'd, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 

With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress ! 

A  yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear, 

Swell'd  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear — 

Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 

On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock — 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot — and  then 

The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men — 

Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 

And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain — 

Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 

Red,  fast  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame ; 

And  blended  fire  aud  moonlight  glared 

On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightty  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  fill'd  the  air, — 
No  shout  was  heard, — nor  gun-shot  there: 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke ; 
And  on  the  greensw.ard  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear'd, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 

[The  "  Pilgrims  "  of  New  England,  even  in  their  wilderness  home,  were  not  exempted  from 
the  sectarian  contentions  which  agitated  the  mother  country  after  the  downfall  of  Charles  the 
First,  and  of  the  established  Episcopacy.  The  Quakers,  Baptists,  and  Catholics  were  banished, 
on  pain  of  death,  from  the  Massachusetts  Colony.  One  Samuel  Gorton,  a  bold  and  eloquent 
declaimer,  after  preaching  for  a  time  in  Boston,  against  the  doctrines  of  the  Puritans,  and  de 
claring  that  their  churches  were  mere  human  devices,  and  their  sacrament  and  baptism  an 
abomination,  was  driven  out  of  the  State's  jurisdiction,  and  compelled  to  seek  a  residence 
among  the  savages.  He  gathered  round  him  a  considerable  number  of  converts,  who,  like  the 
primitive  Christians,  shared  all  things  in  common.  His  opinions,  however,  were  so  trouble 
some  to  the  leading  clergy  of  the  Colony,  that  they  instigated  an  attack  upon  his  "  Family  "  by 
an  armed  force,  which  seized  upon  the  principal  men  in  it,  and  brought  them  into  Massachusetts, 
where  they  were  sentenced  to  be  kept  at  hard  labor  in  several  towns  (one  only  in  each  town), 
during  the  pleasure  of  the  General  Court,  they  being  forbidden,  under  severe  penalties,  to  utter 
any  of  their  religious  sentiments,  except  to  such  ministers  as  might  labor  for  their  conversion. 
They  were  unquestionably  sincere  in  their  opinions,  and,  whatever  may  have  been  their  errors, 
deserved  to  be  ranked  among  those  who  have  in  all  ages  suffered  for  the  freedom  of  conscience.] 


FATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength    and  grace  and    faith 

impart, 
And  with  Thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart ! 
Oh,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal  !— 
Give  Thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel ! 
Father !  for  Thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus ; 
Joyful,  for  Thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  Thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our    weakness,   Lord, 
we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where    our    frugal    meal    was 

shared ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong 

day, 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey  ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 
Underneath  Thy  holy  sky — 

Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 
Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye, — 

Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 
When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 


Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 
Bow'd,  O  God,  alone  to  Thee. 

As  Thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily 

bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew    our    meek    and    brother 
band! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the 

land, 
And  the  Indian  turn'd  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father !  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song ! 
Grateful — that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  Thy  love  which  maketh  free; 
Joyful — that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  Thee! 

Grateful  ¥ — that  where'er  we  toil — 
By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


69 


On  Nantucket's  sea- worn  isle, 
Or  by  wild  Nepoiiset's  tide — 

Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns  which 
rise 

Separate  and  discordant  here, 
Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies! 


Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast, — 
Redden  not  Thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  Thy 

skies  ? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise  ? 


Worn  and  wasted,  oh,  how  long, 

Shall   Thy    trodden   poor  com 
plain  ? 
In  Thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  Thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain ! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel. 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee ! 

In  Thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 

Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave! 
Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 
And  once  more  our  gather'd  band, 

Heart    to  heart,    shall  worship 
Thee! 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

[On  the  declivity  of  a  hill,  in  Salisbury,  Essex  County,  is  a  beautiful  fountain  of  clear  water, 
gushing  out  from  the  very  roots  of  a  majestic  and  venerable  oak.  It  is  about  two  miles  from 
the  junction  of  the  Powow  River  with  the  Merrimack.] 


TRAVELER!  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are 

blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide — 
Down   the  hill-slope    murmuring 

on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon    oak  his  broad  arms 

flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through   its  dark  roots  wreath'd 

and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 


Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell, — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  vrhich  the  proud  Castilian* 
Sought  with  longing  eyes, 

Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 
Of  the  Indian  skies; 

Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 

Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill, 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 
For  an  instant  shone 


*  De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  penetrated  into  the  wilds  of  the  new  world  in  search  of 
gold  and  the  fountain  of  perpetual  youth. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Something  like  a  gleam  of  glad 
ness, 

As  be  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

"With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  Heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 
With  his  chains  of  sand ; 

Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 
'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 

Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 

Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood  and  meadow, 
Gazed  that  stranger  man 

Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 
Over  all  things  ran, 

Save   where  spire  and    westward 
pane 

Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where    no    lingering    trace    was 

telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might 

know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood, 
Down    their    sides    the    shadows 
throwing 


Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 
Down  the  swift  Powow, 

Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 
Those  clear  waters  now ; 

And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 

Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the 
dam. 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be,  his  fathers  ever, 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare    hills — this  conquer'd 
river — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  Heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 


Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


THE  EXILES. 


71 


THE  EXILES. 

[The  incidents  upon  which  the  following  ballad  has  its  foundation,  occurred  about  the  year 
1660.  Thomas  Macey  was  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first  white  settler  of  Nantucket.  A  quaint 
description  of  his  singular  and  perilous  voyage,  in  his  own  handwriting,  is  still  preserved.] 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  liis  door 

Cue  sultry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his 
side 

An  old  and  goodly  tune. 


A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air, — 
The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 

And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder 
cloud 
Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast,  arose  that 
cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At    times,    the     solemn     thunder 
pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  raindrop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  pence,  like   autumn's  moon 
light,  clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 
In  Pilate's  council-hall  : 

It  told  of  wrongs — but  of  a  love 
Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend  !  wilt  thou  give  me  shelter 
here  ?  " 

The  stranger  meekly  said ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 


"  My  life  is  hunted — evil  men 
Are  following  in  my  track  ; 

The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 
Are  on  my  aged  back- 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  'twill  peril 
thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

Oh,   kindly  spoke  the  goodinan's 

wife — 
"Come    in,   old    man!"    quoth 

she, — 
"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the 

storm, 
Whoever  thou  may'st  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 
And  silent  sat  him  down  : 

While  all    within  grew    dark  as 

night 
Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But   while  the  sudden  lightning's 
blaze 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casement  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 
Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 

And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 
Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"  Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy 

door, — 

We  would  not  be  house-breakers ; 
A  rueful  deed  thou'st  done  this 

day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman 

then, 
With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched 

with  rain, 
The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"Open    thy    door,    tliou    wicked 

man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And   give    God    thanks,    if  forty 

stripes 
Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  good- 
man, — 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest; 
He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous 

wrong, — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,   out    upon    thee,   canting 

knave ! " 
And    strong    hands    shook  the 

door, 
"Believe  me,  Macey,"  quoth  the 

priest, — 
"Thou'lt  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire: 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck   away    the  stranger- 
guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage    wall  he 
caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 
With  shout  and  psalm  contended; 

And    Rupert's    oath,   and    Crom 
well's  prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 


Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 
And     sheathed    his     follower's 
sword. 

"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led  : 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell ! " 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"Come  forth,  old  gray -beard,  yea 
and  nay ;  " 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 
In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 

Where  suffering   woman's  prayer 

was  heard, 
With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"Ho,  sheriff!"  quoth  the  ardent 
priest — 

"Take  goodman  Macey  too; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy, 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

And   priest  and  sheriff,   both  to 
gether 

Upon  his  threshold  stood, 
When    Macey,    through    another 

door, 
Sprang  out  into  the  wood. 

"Now,    goodwife,     haste    thee!" 
Macey  cried, 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  : — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm, 

Ho!    speed  the  Maceys,   neck  or 
naught, — 

The  river  course  was  near  : — 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 


"  And  for  thyself ,  I  pray  forbear, —     A  gray  rock,   tasselled  o'er    with 
Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord,  birch, 


THE  EXILES. 


73 


Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 
A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap — they  gain  the  boat — and 

there 

The  goodman  wields  his  oar  : 
''111  luck  betide    them    all" — he 

cried, — 
"The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down  through  the  crashing  under 
wood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came: — 
' '  Stand,    goodman    Macey — yield 

thyself ; 
Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"  Now  out  upon   thy  hangman's 
face !  " 

Bold  Macey  answered  then, — 
"  Whip  women  on  the  village  green 

But  meddle  not  with  men." 

The  priest  came  panting  to    the 

shore, — 

His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  : 
Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest, 

hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"Come    back — come  back!"    the 

parson  cried, 

"The  church's  curse  beware." 
"  Curse  and  thou  wilt,"  said  Macey, 

"but 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare. " 

"Vile  scoffer!"  cried  the  baffled 

priest, — 

"  Thou'lt  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"Who's  born   to  be  hanged,  will 

not  be  drowned, " 
Quoth  Macey  merrily ; 

"And   so,    sir  sheriff  and  priest, 
good-bye ! '" 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  tl*e  twain  Ujpon  the  shore. 


Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 
Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 

While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 
And  fainter  growled  the  thun 
der. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds, 
the  sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

Oh,  beautiful !  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bend 
ed;— 
One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern 

hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By    green    Pentucket's    southern 

slope 

The  small  boat  glided  fast,— 
The  watchers  of  "the  Block-house" 

saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 
Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 

To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars, — 
The  glide  of  birch  canoes, 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 
(The  men  were  all  away), 

Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 
Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's  rocks    and    fir-trees 

threw 

Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 
And  New  bury 's  spire  and  weather 
cock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their 

left, 

The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green ; 
And  on  their  right,   with  dwarf 

shrubs  crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed ; — 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 
On  land  and  water  lay,  — 

On  Hie  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 
On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape 
Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts'  Bay! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  their  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 
Round  isle  and  headland  steep  — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy 
Cape 

The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 
And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle, 

Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 


And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 
They    braved    the    rough 
weather  ; 


sea- 


And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
Went  down  life's  vale  together: 

How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantucket's  sails  were  spread: 

How  pale  want  alternated 
With  plenty's  golden  smile; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macey 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs, — 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island ! — 
And  grant  for  evermore, 

That  charity  and  freedom  dwell, 
As  now  upon  her  shore ! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 


eag 
family  visitant.] 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast — 
Gone    the    bridemaids,    gone    the 

priest ! 

All  is  over — all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn^in  the  arms  of  May! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  with 
out, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout  ; 


Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the   grave-yard 

trees ; 

And  the  great  sea- waves  below, 
Like    the  night's    pulse,   beating 

slow. 


From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 


With  half  uttered  shriek  and  start — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips    and  changing 
cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and   wainscot 

old, 

And,  through  faded  curtains  steal 
ing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face; 
And      that      forehead's      knitted 

thought 
Love's    soft   hand    hath  not    un- 

wrought. 

"Yet,"  she  sighs,    "he  loves  me 

well, 

More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  !  " 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blend 
ing,     . 


In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha  !— that  start  of  horror !— Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Hark!    that    gasping,   hoarse  and 

low  : 
' '  Spare  me — spare  me — let  me  go ! ' 

God  have  mercy ! — Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 
"Waken!  save  me  !'  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 
And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn; 
But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 
Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 
"Fear    not!    give    the    dead    her 
own!" 

Ah! — the    dead  wife's    voice  she 

knows  ! 
That    cold  hand    whose  pressure 

froze, 

Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn, 
"Wake  thee  !    wake    thee  !  "  Lov 

his  eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds" 
her, 

Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her; 

Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meet 
ing, 

And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick 
beating  : 

"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  ?" 

"Hush!'*  she  saith,  "the  dead  is 
here  ! " 

"  Nay,  a  dream — an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises, — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold, — 
"Ah!"  she  sighs,  "her  hand  was 
cold  ! " 


Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 
But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 
And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 
From  his   young    wife's  arms  he 

shrinketh ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 
Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye  ? 


She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  child-like  on  his  breast, 
And  in  trustful  innocence 
Draw  new   strength  and  courage 

thence ; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin ! 


She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  his  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 


He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread, 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot ! 
From     their     solemn     homes    of 

thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 
Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 
Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 
Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weak 
est, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the 

meekest, 

Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 

[TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE,  the  black  chieftain  of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on  the  plantation  "  de 
Libertas,"  belonging  to  M.  BAYOU.  When  the  rising  of  the  negroes  took  place,  in  1791,  TOUS 
SAINT  refused  to  join  them  until  he  had  aided  M.  BAYOU  and  his  family  to  escape  to  Baltimore. 
The  white  man  had  discovered  in  TOUSSAINT  many  noble  qualities,  and  had  instructed  him  in 
some  of  the  first  branches  of  education  ;  and  the  preservation  of  his  life  was  owing  to  the  negro's 
gratitude  for  this  kindness. 

In  1797,  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVHRTURE  was  appointed,  by  the  French  government,  General  in 
Chief  of  the  armies  of  St.  Domingo,  and,  as  such,  signed  the  Convention  with  General  MA  IT- 
LAND,  for  the  evacuation  of  the  island  by  the  British.  From  this  period  until  1801,  the  island, 
under  the  government  of  TOUSSAINT  was  happy,  tranquil,  and  prosperous.  The  miserable  at 
tempt  of  NAPOLEON  to  reestablish  slavery  in  St.  Domingo,  although  it  failed  of  its  intended 
object,  proved  fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain.  Treacherously  seized  by  LE  CLERC,  he  was  hurried 
on  board  a  vessel  by  night,  and  conveyed  to  France,  where  he  was  confined  in  a  cold  subter 
ranean  dungeon,  at  Besancon,  where,  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The  treatment  of  TOUSSAINT 
finds  a  parallel  only  in  the  murder  of  the  Duke  D'ENGHIEN.  It  was  the  remark  of  GODWIN, 
in  his  Lectures,  that  the  West  India  Islands,  since  their  first  discovery  by  COLUMBUS,  could  not 
boast  of  a  single  name  which  deserves  comparison  with  that  of  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVEKTURE.] 

'TWAS  night.     The  tranquil  moonlight  smile 

With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth,  shed  down 

Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle — 
On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled  town ; 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

An  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met: 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing  the  nightshade's  solemn  gloom— 
The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind, — 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold, — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold, — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly, — 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, — 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery- winged  cucullo  played! 

Yes — lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack; 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, — 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 
The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind— 
One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill, — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  ere  long, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong! 

Hark  to  that  cry ! — long,  loud,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above; — 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang — 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove ! 


78  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry ; 
But,  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path, 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong,— 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years — 
The  unrequited  toil — the  tears — 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell, 
Had  found  in  Nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen, 
Burst,  on  the  startled  ears  of  men, 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern — the  cry  of  blood ! 
It  ceased — and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  greeo, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook, 

Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell — 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 
And,  painted  on  the  blood -red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high ; 
And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 

Trode,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he  made  / 
And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck — 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck ! 
And,  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's  shriek  of  more  than  fear; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own! 

Then,  injured  Afric! — for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes, 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice — pollution,  or  the  grave  ! 

Where  then  was  he,  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.  f  <J 

Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong  ? 
Now — when  the  thunderbolt  is  speeding : 
Now — when  oppression's  heart  is  bleeding, 
Now — when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood — 
That  curse  which,  through  long  years  of  crime, 

Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 
Where  murder's  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 


He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half -suspended  breath, 
To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death — 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture ! 
What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given; 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  earth  sent  up  to  Heaven ! 
What  marvel,  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night, 
As  groan,  and  shout,  and  bursting  flame, 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind !— he  was  a  MAN ! 


Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain! — if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime, — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice,  in  his  own  good  time, — 
That  gentleness,  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs. 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing, — 
Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  bUme. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ? — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done!— 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  his  Holy  eyes, 


30  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still, 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned  MIL 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle, — 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee, 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face, 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 
"  Ha — stand,  or  die! "    The  white  man's  eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"  What,  ho,  Toussaint! "    A  moment  more, 
His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away,"  he  shouted;  "  fly  with  me, — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea ; — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  grave  have  spoken, 
The  yoke  is  spurned — the  chain  is  broken ; 
On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing — 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing! 
No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast ; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip ; 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance  sworn 
For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne, — 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a  flood; 
Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still. 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro !  fly  with  me — 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea : 
Away,  for  life !  " — He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 
Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train — 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds  from  hell ! 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.  81 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge. 
And  he — the  Negro  champion — where 

In  the  fierce  tumult,  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air — 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair — 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  seal 

Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besangon's  alien  sky, 
Dark  Haytien ! — for  the  time  shall  come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  colm^s  infamy  ; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee, 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul, 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue  or  clime — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred, — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm — 
Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm : — * 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own, — 

*  The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind  the  beautiful  sonnet  of  William  Wordsworth,  ad* 
dressed  to  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  during  his  confinement  in  France. 

"  Toussaint !— thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now  s     ' 

Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ; 
Oh,  miserable  chieftain  ! — where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience? — Yet,  die  not ;  do  thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow: 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and  skies,— 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 

That  will  forget  thee:  thou  hast  great  allies, 

Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm, — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains, — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS. 

"That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 


Milton" 's  Lycidas. 


[The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with  a  crew  of  twenty-two  men,  and  with  one  hundred  and 
sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April,  1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  ter 
rible  malady  broke  out — an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes— contagious,  and  altogether  beyond 
the  resources  of  medicine.  It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity  of  water  among  the  slaves  (only 
half  a  wine-glass  per  day  being  allowed  to  an  individual^,  and  by  the  extreme  impurity  of  the 
air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the  advice  of  the  physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck  oc 
casionally  ;  but  some  of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each  other's  arms,  1  e«ped  over 
board,  in  the  hope,  which  so  universally  prevails  among  them,  of  being  swiftly  transported  to 
their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To  check  this,  the  captain  ordered  several,  who  were  stopped  in 
the  attempt,  to  be  shot,  or  hanged,  before  their  companions.  Th&  disease  extended  to  the 
crew  ;  and  one  after  another  were  smitten  with  it,  until  only  one  remained  unaffected.  Yet 
even  this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude  calculation :  to  save  the  expense  of  supporting 
slaves  rendered  unsalable,  and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim  against  the  underwriters,  thirty- 
si.r  of  tlie  negroes,  having  become  blind,  were  thrown  into  the  sea  and  drowned  I 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  thesolitary  individual,  whose  sightremained  unaffec 
ted,  should  also  be  seized  with  the  malady,  a  sail  was  discovered.  It  was  the  Spanish  slaver, 
LEON.  The  same  disease  had  been  there  ;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the  crewhadbecome  blind! 
Unable  to  assist  each  other,  the  vessels  parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been  heard 
of.  The  RODEUR  reached  Gaudaloupe  on  the  2istof  June;  the  only  man  who  had  escaped  the 
disease,  and  had  thus  been  enabled  to  steer  the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after  its 
arrival. — Speech  of  M.  Benjamin  Constant,  in  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17, 
1820.] 


"  ALL  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,     bearded     heads     were 

thrust — 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first  !  " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up, — 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 
With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 


With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 
And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 

"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?  " 
Growled  through    that    matted 
lip— 

"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 
Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell  ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell ! — 
The    hoarse,    low    curse,    throat- 
stifled— 

The  starving  infant's  moan — > 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured     through    a     mother's 
groan  ! 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 
The  stricken  blind  ones  carue  : 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS. 


83 


Below,  had  all  been  darkness — 
Above,  was  still  the  same. 

Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 
Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 

And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 
Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"  Overboard     with    them,     ship 
mates  !  " 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied  ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth  !   what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  Thee  ? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 
*         *         *         *         •* 

Red  glowed  the  western  waters — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 

Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's 
deck, 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand — 
Curse  on't — I'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed — but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's 
track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail ! — thank  God,  a  sail !  " 

And,  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur, 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 


Down  came  the  stranger  vessel 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"Ho!  for  the  love  of  mercy — 

We're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

"  Help  us  !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we've  floated  fearfulty, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship's  the  slaver  Leon — 

We've  but  a  score  on  board — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over — 

Help — for  the  love  of  God !  " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone— 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan. 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 
*  *  -x-  * 

In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 

A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and 
bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well 
On  the  palm  trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell; 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  lull  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye ; 
At  the  breaking  of  th*i  morning, 

At  the  starlit  eveniwg  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty. 

Fell  the  blackness  «if  Ms  crim» 


84:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


STANZAS. 

["  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not  bear  in  their  native  country  is  expiring,  and 
the  sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands  has  applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall 
the  United  States — the  free  United  States,  which  could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king,  cradle  the 
bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing?  Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy  ?  Shall 
we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic  in  righteousness  than  a  king 
dom  in  its  age  V—Dr.  Fallen's  A  ddress. 

"  Genius  of  America ! — Spirit  of  our  free  institutions — where  art  thou  ? — How  art  thou  fallen, 
O  Lucifer!  son  of  the  morning — how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven!  Hell  from  beneath  is 
moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming! — The  kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha! 
Aha! — ART  THOU  BECOME  LIKE  UNTO  us?  — Speech  of  SamuelJ.  May^\ 

OUR  fellow  countrymen  in  chains! 

Slaves — in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves — crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood  — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  welll 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there — 

The  falling  lash— the  fetter's  clank ! 
Slaves— SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that  air, 

Which  old  De  K-!b  and  Sumter  drank! 

What,  ho! — our  countrymen  in  chains! 

The  whip  on  WOMAN'S  shrinking  flesh  ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains, 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh 
What  !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 

What  !  Gotl  s  own  image  bought  and  sold  I 
AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the*  brute  for  gold  I 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What  !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom,  or  a  grave  ? 


OUR  COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.  85 

Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  V 
And  shall  the  SLAVE,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry -bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondman  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
Prom  "  farthest  Ind  ''  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go — let  us  ask  of  Constantino 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat  ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ 
"Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 
Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us  ! " 

Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn— the  heathen's  mirth — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by -word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  laud  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  gray-beard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  1 


86  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Up — while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 
The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 

Up— while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 
In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

Oh  !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth— 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up — up — why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  ! — not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain — the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  tliose  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Molock  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  : 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven  1 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 

SHE  sings  by  her  wheel,  at  that  low  cottage-door, 
Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching  before, 
With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our  dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky ! 
And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage-door — 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor  ? 
'Tis  the  great  Southern  planter — the  master  who  waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen — for  shame!     Let  those  Yankee  fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a  change  of  their  skins  j 


TO  W.  L.  G. 


Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a  gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by  them — 
For  shame,  Ellen,  shame ! — cast  thy  bondage  aside, 
And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and  pride. 

"  Oh,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can  wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 
Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their  bloom  ! 

"  Oh,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall  all 
Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call ; 
They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling  and  awe, 
And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a  law." 

Oh,  could  ye  have  seen  her — that  pride  of  our  girls — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer  could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on  steel ! 

"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron!  thy  treasures  of  gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast  sold; 
Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear ! 

' '  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than  ours, 
And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy  flowers; 
But,  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains  which  raves, 
Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes  over  slaves! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with  thee!" 


TO  W.   L.   G. 


CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  be 
neath 

Oppression's  iron  hand : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand, 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In    the     steadfast     strength    of 

truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on ! — for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 
On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 


Long  as  one    human  heart  shall 

swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak    in    a    slumbering  nation's 

ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear — 
The  fetter's  link  be  broken ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer 
thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords! 


They  tell  me   thou  art  rash  and 
vain — 

A  searcher  after  fame — 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name — 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's 
hand, 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and 

read 
Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ! 


And  watched  the  trials  which  have 

made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And   shall  the   slanderer's  demon 

breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 
And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 


may 


Go  on — the  dagger's  point 

glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens 

there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 
Then    onward    with    a    martyr's 

zeal — 

Press  on  to  thy  reward — 
The  hour  when  man    shall  only 

kneel 
Before  his  Father— God. 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 

[  "  Living,  I  shall  assert  the  right  of  FREE  DISCUSSION  ;  dying,  I  shall  assert  it ;  and,  should 
I  leave  no  other  inheritance  to  my  children,  by  the  blessing  of  God  I  will  leave  them  the  inheri 
tance  of  FREE  PRINCIPLES,  and  the  example  of  a  manly  and  independent  defence  of  them." — 
Daniel  Webster.] 


PRIDE  of  New  England  ! 

Soul  of  our  fathers  ! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
Where's  the  New  Englander 

Shamefully  cowering  ? 
Graves  gre«n  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying, — 
Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 

Living  and  dying ! 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges ! 
Go — let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges! 
Go — let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters — 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters  1 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean-ward  going — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 


Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be : 

Freedom  forever! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer ; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth, 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur  : 
God  and  our  charter's  right, , 

Freedom  forever! 
Truce  with  oppression,. 

Never,  oh!  never! 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN.  39 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 

Written  on  reading  the  report  of  the  proceedings  of  the  American  Colonization  Society,  at  its 
•annual  meeting  in  1834. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-crake  and  forest — the  hunting  of  men  ? 
The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn: 
Hark ! — the  cheer  and  the  hallo ! — the  crack  of  the  whip, 
.And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip  ! 
.Ail  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their  match — 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions  to  catch. 
So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest — the  hunting  of  men ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters! — how  nobly  they  ride 

In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the  strength  of  their  pride! — 

The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on  the  wind, 

Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  behind — 

The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing  and  prayer — 

The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 

And  woman — kind  woman — wife,  widow,  and  maid — 

For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her  aid : 

Her  foot's  in  the  stirrup — her  hand  on  the  rein — 

How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of  men! 

Oh!  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 

In  this  "  land  of  the  brave  and  this  home  of  the  free." 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from  Georgia  to  Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle — all  grasping  the  rein — 

Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose  sin 

Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his  skin ! 

Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at  bay ! 

Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their  purpose  and  prey  ? 

Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ? — their  nerves  tremble,  whea 

All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 

Ho ! — ALMS  for  our  hunters !  all  weary  and  faint 

Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of  the  saint. 

The  horn  is  wound  faintly — the  echoes  are  still, 

Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and  hill. 

Haste — alms  for  our  hunters  !  the  hunted  once  more 

Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their  backs  to  the  shore : 

What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  of  the  white, 

Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Freedom  and  Right"? 

Ho ! — alms  for  tlie  hunters !  or  never  again 

Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting  of  men  ! 

ALMS — ALMS  for  our  hunters !  why  will  ye  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melting  away  ? 
The  parson  has  turned ;  for,  on  charge  of  his  own, 
Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone  ? 


90  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a  sigh-  - 
There  is  doubt  in  his  heart — there  is  fear  in  his  eye. 
Oh !  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall  prevail, 
And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of  the  tail. 
Oh!  haste,  ere  he  leave  us!  for  who  will  ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 

[In  the  Report  of  the  celebrated  pro-slavery  meeting  in  Charleston  S.  C.,  on  the  4th  of  th< 
gth  month,  1835,  published  in  the  "  Courier  "  of  that  city,  it  is  stated,  "  The  CLERGY  of  al 
denominations  attended  in  a  body,  LENDING  THEIR  SANCTION  TO  THE  PROCEEDINGS,  and  add 
ing  by  their  presence  to  the  impressive  character  of  the  scene!  "  ] 

JUST  God ! — and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  Thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 

What !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks — and  rob  Thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  Thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  V 

What !  servants  of  Thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast, — fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  Thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondsman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord  1  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And,  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  Thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  Thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE.  91 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh !  speed  the  moment  on 

When  Wrong  shall  cease — and  Liberty,  and  Love, 
And  Truth,  and  Right,  throughout  the  earth  be  known 

As  in  their  home  above. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

[Ina  late  publication  of  L.  F.  TASISTRO,  "  Random  Shots  and  Southern  Breezes,"  is  a  descrip 
tion  of  a  slave  auction  at  New  Orleans,  at  which  the  auctioneer  recommended  the  woman  on 
the  stand  as  "  A  GOOD  CHRISTIAN  !  "] 

A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ? — for  His  grace 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 

Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  Thy  weakest  and  Thy  humblest  one, 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  Thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 

Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips — o'ertask  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and  shame. 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 

Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years, 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher — tell  the  toiling  slave 


92  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 
The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command — "  OBEY!  "  * 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh ;  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first  and  best, 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh,  shame !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis!  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain,  f 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  Thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 

From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's  cell — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loathsome  hell, 

And  cofHe's  weary  chain, — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  LONG,  On  GOD,  HOW  LONG  ? 

*  There  is  in  Liberty  County,  Georgia,  an  Association  for  the  religious  instruction  of  Negroes' 


of  the  people,  and  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the  owners." 

t  We  often  see  advertisements  in  the  Southern  papers,  in  which  individual  slaves,  or  several 
of  a  lot,  are  recommended  as  "•pious"  or  as  "  members  of  churches."  Lately  we  saw  a  slave 
advertised,  who,  among  other  qualifications,  was  described  as  "  a  Baptist  preacher."11 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES.  93 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

Is  this<the  land  our  fathers  loved, 
The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  ? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 

The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak — but  as  our  masters  please? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel — 

The  dungeon's  gloom — the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought  ? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 

Shall  Honor  bleed?— Shall  Truth  succumb  ? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No — by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall — 
By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound — 
By  Gris wold's  stained  and  shattered  wall- 
By  Warren's  ghost — by  Langdon's  shade — 
By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead !  , 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet, — 

By  all  above — around — below — 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer — NO! 


94:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

No — guided  by  our  country's  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may — as  freemen  can  ! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 
Which  should  have  rilled  the  world  with  flame  ? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  hearty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn, 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  ? 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life — its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn? 

False — foul — profane !     Go — teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell  I 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise ! 

Rail  on,  then,  "  brethren  of  the  South  " — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less — 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetters  on  the  Yankee  press  ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  Sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder — WE  ARE"  FREE  ! 


LINES.  95 

LINES 

t  Written  on  reading  the  spirited  and  manly  remarks  of  Governor  RITNER,  of  Pennsylvania,  in 
his  Message  of  1836,  on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 

THANK  God  for  the  token ! — one  lip  is  still  free — 
One  spirit  untrammelled — unbending  one  knee  ! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and  firm, 
Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust, — 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has  broken! 
Thank  God,  that  one  man,  as  &  freeman,  has  spoken  ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been  blown ! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has  gone ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South — of  the  charter  and  chain — 
Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips ! 
Where  "  chivalric  "  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the  poor ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters  are — WORSHIP,  OR  DIE  ! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it!     Wherever  the  blood 
Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to  God; 
Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining ; 
Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining ; 
Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 
Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 
Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind ; 
There,  God  speed  it  onward ! — its  truth  will  be  felt — 
The  bonds  shall  be  loosened — the  iron  shall  melt ! 

And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of  PENN 
Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and  glen — 
Will  the  land  where  a  BENEZET'S  spirit  went  forth 
To  the  peeled,  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of  Earih-^ 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst — 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of  their  kind, 
The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  combined — 
Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a  chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  ? 

No,  RITNER  ! — her  "  Friends,"  at  thy  warning  shall  stand 
Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime; 


96  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and  the  pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  the  slave :  * — 
Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords  of  the  South 
One  brow  for  the  brand — for  the  padlock  one  mouth? 
They  cater  to  tyrants  ? — they  rivet  the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro  again  ? 

No,  never! — one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the  West, 
On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below ! 
The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE — uprisen — awake — 
Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Freedom  at  stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from  each  height, 
"  OUR  COUNTRY  AND  LIBERTY! — GOD  FOR  THE  RIGHT!  " 


LINES. 

Written  on  reading  the  famous  "  PASTORAL  LETTER  "  of  the  Massachusetts  General  Associ 
ation,  1837. 

So,  this  is  all — the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter! 
When  laymen  think — when  women  preach — 

A  war  of  words— a  "  Pastoral  Letter  !  *  " 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes  ! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 

Their  loving  kindness  to  transgressors  ? 

A  "Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull — 

Alas!  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 
How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 

From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's  ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 

Think  ye,  Can  words  alone  preserve  them  ? 
Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve  them. 

*  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  the  first  testimony  of  a  religious  body  against  negro  slavery  was 
that  of  a  Society  of  German  "  Friends  "  in  Pennsylvania. 


LINES.  97 

Oh,  glorious  days — when  church  and  state 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers  1 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 
No  vile  "itinerant"  then  could  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore, — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  I 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  "non-professing"  frantic  teachers ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 

And  flayed  the  backs  of  female  preachers." 
Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 

And  Salem's  streets,  could  tell  their  story, 
Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and  gory! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No — for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  ! 
For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right" 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 
And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven  are  showing 
That,  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going! 
And,  when  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  breaking, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  an4  in  strength  are.  waking  1 


98  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison  ! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

"Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven— 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  ' '  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

Oh,  how  contrast,  with  such  as  ye, 

A  LBAVITT'S  free  and  generous  bearing! 
A  PERRY'S  calm  integrity. 

A  PHELP'S  zeal  and  Christian  daring ! 
A  FOLLENS'  soul  of  sacrifice, 

And  MAY'S  with  kindness  overflowing ! 
How  green  and  lovely  in  the  eyes 

Of  freemen  are  their  graces  growing  1 

Ay,  there's  a  glorious  remnant  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom's  fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  one  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river ! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear — 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them— 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them. 

Oh,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 

Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from  Heaven, 
With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 

And  Deborah's  song  for  triumph  given  I 


LINES.  99 


And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God, 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation  ? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  His  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  His  coming  ? 

And  thou  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken — 
Angel  of  Freedom !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven  I 


LINES. 

Written  for  the  Meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society,  at  Chatham  Street  Chapel,  N.  Y.,  held 
•D  the  4th  of  the  ;th  month,  1834. 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 

Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 
As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 

The  fire  by  night — the  cloud  by  day! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 

A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 
Most  Holy  Father !  unto  Thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 

Thy  children  all — though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will — 

With  Thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  Thine  image  still 

We  thank  Thee,  Father  I-^-hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more, 

And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here ;  and  hope  and  love 

Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 
And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 

The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  oh,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 

As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill — 
For  those   who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 

Are  bound   in  Slavery's  fetters  still ; 


100  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

For  those  to  whom  Thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven  I 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall — 

Oh,  be  Thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  f ather,  pitiest  all ! 

And  grant,  O  Father !  that  the  time 
,Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land,  and  tongue,  and  clime, 
The  message  of  Thy  love  shall  hear — 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just  I 


LINES 

Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  Third  Anniversary  of  British  Emancipation,  at  the  Broad- 
way  Tabernacle,  N.  Y.,  "  First  of  August,"  1837. 

O  HOLY  FATHER! — just  and  true 

Are  all  Thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 
And  unto  Thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise! 
As  children  of  Thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye — we  bend  the  knee, 
With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  Thee. 

For  Thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free — 
Thanksgiving  ! — for  the  work  is  Thine! 

Praise ! — for  the  blessing  is  of  Thee  1 

And  oh,  we  feel  Thy  presence  here — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare! 
Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear — 

Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's  prayer! 
Praise! — for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 
The  fountains  of  repentance  flow ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 


LINES  101 

Speed  on  Thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
Oh,  not  to  those  whom  Thou  hast  led, 

As  with  Thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  Thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES 

Written  for  the  Anniversary  celebration  of  the  First  of  August,  at  Milton,  1840. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray : 
God  willed  their  freedom ;  and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves! 

He  spoke !  across  the  Carib  sea, 
We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours: 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The  Saxon  strength — the  nerve  of  steel— 

The  tireless  energy  of  will, — 
The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery. — When  it  falls 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

Oh  kingly  mockers ! — scoffing  show 

What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do; 
Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 
Progression  toward  the  right  and  true. 


102  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before, — 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

On  then,  my  brothers !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 

Take  heart !    The  promised  hour  draws  near- 

I  hear  the  downward  t>eat  of  wings, 
And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear — 
Joy  to  the  people ! — woe  and  fear 

To  new  world  tyrants,  old  world  kings ! 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DAUGHTERS,  SOLD  INTO 
SOUTHERN  BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 

Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 

Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 

Through  the  hot  and  misty  air, — 
Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  1 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 


THE  FAREWELL.  103 

Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 

From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 

Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 

To  their  cheerless  homes  again — 

There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them — 

There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice -swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play — 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank — 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there — 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice -swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,— 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone- 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more ! 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dark  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice -swamp  dark  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth — 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  a  mother's  love, 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  1 


104:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


ADDRESS 

Written  for  the  opening  of  "  PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,"  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion,  Virtue, 
Liberty,  and  Independence,  of  the  isth  of  the  sth  month,  1838. 

NOT  with  the  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  spoil  of  nations,  and  ' '  barbaric  gold  " — 
No  weapons  wrested  from  the  fields  of  blood, 
Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding  Roman  stood, 
And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts  saw 
A  world,  war- wasted,  crouching  to  his  law — 
Nor  blazoned  car — nor  banners  floating  gay, 
Like  those  which  swept  along  the  Appian  way, 
When  to  the  welcome  of  imperial  Rome, 
The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph  home, 
And  trumpet-peal,  and  shoutings  wild  and  high, 
Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian  sky ; 
But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and  sincere, 
As  Christian  freemen,  only,  gathering  here, 
We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 
Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 
As  Virtue's  shrine — as  Liberty's  abode — 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom's  God ! 

Oh!  loftier  halls,  'neath  brighter  skies  than  these, 

Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  ^Egean  seas, 

Pillar  and  shrine — and  lifelike  statues  seen, 

Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble,  shafts  between, 

Where  glorious  Athens  from  her  rocky  hill 

Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her  will — 

And  the  chaste  temple,  and  the  classic  grove — 

The  hall  of  sages — and  the  bowers  of  love, 

Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the  shores,  and  gave 

Their  shadows  to  the  blue  Saronic  wave ; 

And  statelier  rose,  on  Tiber's  winding  side, 

The  Pantheon's  dome — the  Coliseum's  pride — 

The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward  flung 

The  deep,  clear  cadence  of  the  Roman  tongue, 

Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of  fate,  went  forth 

To  the  awed  nations  of  a  conquered  earth, 

Where  the  proud  Caesars  in  their  glory  came, 

And  Brutus  lightened  from  his  lips  of  flame ! 

Yet  in  the  porches  of  Athena's  halls, 
And  in  the  shadows  of  her  stately  walls, 
Lurked  the  sad  bondman,  and  his  tears  of  woe 
Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded  flow ; 
And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  silver  dome 
Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious  Rome. 
Oh !  not  for  him — the  chained  and  stricken  slave—' 
By  Tiber's,  shore,  or  blue  ^gina's 


ADDRESS.  105 

In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sage's  seat, 
The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm  heart  beat; 
No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 
No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain  1 

But  this  fair  Hall,  to  Truth  and  Freedom  given, 

Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth  and  Heaven, 

A  free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 

To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  unconfined, 

Shall  thrill  with  echoes,  such  as  ne'er  of  old 

From  Roman  hall,  or  Grecian  temple  rolled ; 

Thoughts  shall  find  utterance,  such  as  never  yet 

The  Propylaea  or  the  Forum  met. 

Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator's  strife 

Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of  life ; 

No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous  game — 

No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 

But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall  flow, 

As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of  woe ; 

Here,  in  stern  judgment  of  the  oppressor's  wrong — 

Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Freedom's  tongue — • 

No  partial  justice  hold  the  unequal  scale — 

No  pride  of  caste  a  brother's  rights  assail — 

No  tyrant's  mandates  echo  from  this  wrall, 

Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of  All ! 

But  a  fair  field,  where  mind  may  close  with  mind, 

Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chainless  wind ; 

Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on  Truth  alone, 

And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul  are  thrown ; 

Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  worldly  pomp,  and  might, 

Yield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and  Right. 

And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should  stand 
Where  Pennsylvania's  Founder  led  his  band, 
From  thy  blue  waters,  Delaware ! — to  press 
The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 
Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amazement  saw 
The  soul's  high  freedom  trammelled  by  no  law ; 
Here,  where  the  fierce  and  warlike  forest-men 
Gathered  in  peace,  around  the  home  of  PENN, 
Awed  by  the  weapons  Love  alone  had  given, 
Drawn  from  the  holy  armory  of  Heaven ; 
Where  Nature's  voice  against  the  bondman's  wrong 
First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant  tongue; 
Where  LAY'S  bold  message  to  the  proud  was  borne 
And  KEITH'S  rebuke,  and  FRANKLIN'S  manly  scorn- 
Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Freedom  first 
From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old  World's  dust, 
Spread  her  white  pinions  to  our  Western  blast, 
And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine  cast, 
One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from  Slavery's  ban- 
One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Rights  of  Manl 


106  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Oh !  if  the  spirits  of  the  parted  come, 
Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home ; 
If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look  forth 
From  their  far  dwellings,  to  the  things  of  earth — 
Is  it  a  dream,  that  with  their  eyes  of  love, 
They  gaze  now  on  us  from  the  bowers  above  ? 
LAY'S  ardent  soul — and  BENEZET  the  mild, 
Steadfast  in  faith,  yet  gentle  as  a  child — 
Meek-hearted  WOOLMAN, — and  that  brother-band, 
The  sorrowing  exiles  from  their  "  FATHERLAND," 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem's  bowers  of  vine, 
And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious  Rhine, 
To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of  wood 
Freedom  from  man  and  holy  peace  with  God ; 
Who  first.of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor, — for  the  outcast  slave, — 
Is  it  a  dream  that  such  as  these  look  down, 
And  with  their  blessing  our  rejoicings  crown  ? 

Let  us  rejoice,  that,  while  the  pulpit's  door 

Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the  poor ; 

While  the  church,  wrangling  upon  points  of  faith, 

Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto  death; 

While  crafty  traffic  and  the  lust  of  gain 

Unite  to  forge  oppression's  triple  chain, 

One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple  free — 

As  a  resting  place  for  hunted  Liberty ! 

Where  men  may  speak,  unshackled  and  unawed, 

High  words  of  truth,  for  Freedom  and  for  God. 

And  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work  hath  done, 

And  rich  with  blessings  o''er  our  land  hath  gone ; 

When  not  a  slave  beneath  his  yoke  shall  pine, 

From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sabine ; 

When  unto  angel-lips  at  last  is  given 

The  silver  trump  of  Jubilee  to  Heaven ; 

And  from  Virginia's  plains — Kentucky's  shades, 

And  through  the  dim  Floridian  everglades, 

Rises,  to  meet  that  angel-trumpet's  sound, 

The  voice  of  millions  from  their  chains  unbound — 

Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling  in  decay, 

Its  strong  walls  blending  with  the  common  clay, 

Yet,  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength  shall  stand 

The  best  and  noblest  of  a  ransomed  land — 

Pilgrims,  like  those  who  throng  around  the  shrine 

Of  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine ! — 

A  prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 

Than  that  which  lingers  round  the  Parthenon. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  taught 

The  work  of  Freedom  which  his  fathers  wrought — 

Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 

Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and  power, — 


THE  RESPONSE. 


107 


How  the  high  errand  quickened  woman's  soul, 
And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a  living  coal — 
How  Freedom's  martyrs  kept  their  lofty  faith, 
True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and  death. — 
The  pencil's  art  shall  sketch  the  ruined  Hall, 
The  Muses'  garland  crown  its  aged  wall, 
And  History's  pen  for  after  times  record 
Its  consecration  unto  FKEEDOM'S  GOD  ! 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 


WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood 
And,    through    the    storm  which 

round  her  swept, 
Their  constant  ward  and  watching 

kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet   herds   re 
pose, 

The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And     every   gift    on     Freedom's 

shrine 

Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for 
wine! 


Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have 

gone; 
Their  strife  is  past — their  triumph 

won; 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 
And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is 

ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We    grasp  the  weapons  He  has 

given, — 
The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of 

Heaven ! 


THE  RESPONSE. 

["  To  agitate  the  question  (Slavery)  anew,  is  not  only  impolitic,  but  it  is  a  virtual  breach  of 
good  faith  to  our  brethren  of  the  South  ;  an  unwarrantable  interference  with  their  domestic  re 
lations  and  institutions."  "  I  can  never,  in  the  official  station  which  I  occupy,  consent  to 
countenance  a  course  which  may  jeopard  the  peace  and  harmony  of  the  Union." — Governor 
Porter's  Inaugural  Message,  1838.] 

No  "  countenance  "  of  his,  forsooth ! 

Who  asked  it  at  his  vassal  hands  ? 
Who  looked  for  homage  done  to  Truth, 

By  party's  vile  and  hateful  bands  ? 
Who  dreamed  that  one  by  them  possessed, 
Would  lay  for  her  his  spear  in  rest  ? 

His  "  countenance  " !   well,  let  it  light 

The  human  robber  to  his  spoil ! — 
Let  those  who  track  the  bondsman's  flight, 

Like  bloodhounds  o'er  our  once  free  soil, 
Bask  in  its  sunshine  while  they  may, 
And  howl  its  praises  on  their  way  ; 


108  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

We  ask  no  boon  :  our  rights  we  claim — 
Free  press  and  thought — free  tongue  and  pen — 

The  right  to  speak  in  Freedom's  name, 
As  Pennsylvaniaus  and  as  men  ; 

To  do,  by  Lynch  law  unforbid, 

What  our  own  Rush  and  Franklin  did. 

Ay,  there  we  stand,  with  planted  feet, 

Steadfast,  where  those  old  worthies  stood  : — 

Upon  us  let  the  tempest  beat, 

Around  us  swell  and  surge  the  flood  : 

We  fail  or  triumph  on  that  spot  ; 

God  helping  us,  we  falter  not. 

"  A  breach  of  plighted  faith  ?  "  For  shame  ! — 
Who  voted  for  that  "  breach  " !    Who  gave 

In  the  state  councils,  vote  and  name 
For  freedom  for  the  District  slave  ? 

Consistent  patriot !  go,  forswear, 

Blot  out,  "expunge "  the  record  there  !  * 

Go,  eat  thy  words.     Shall  H C 

Turn  round — a  moral  harlequin  ? 
And  arch  V B wipe  away 

The  stains  of  his  Missouri  sin  ? 
And  shall  that  one  unlucky  vote 
Stick,  burr-like,  in  thy  honest  throat  ? 

No — do  thy  part  in  '^putting  down  "  f 
The  friends  of  Freedom  : — summon  out 

The  parson  in  his  saintly  gown, 
To  curse  the  outlawed  roundabout, 

In  concert  with  the  Belial  brood — 

The  Balaam  of  "  the  brotherhood  "  1 

Quench  every  free  discussion  light — 

Clap  on  the  legislative  snuffers, 
And  caulk  with  "  resolutions"  tight 

The  ghastly  rents  the  Union  suffers! 
Let  church  and  state  brand  Abolition 
As  heresy  and  rank  sedition. 

Choke  down,  at  once,  each  breathing  thing, 
That  whispers  of  the  Rights  of  Man: — 

Gag  the  free  girl  who  dares  to  sing 
Of  freedom  o'er  her  dairy  pan : — 

Dog  the  old  farmer's  steps  about, 

And  hunt  his  cherished  treason  out. 

*  It  ought  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  DAVID  R.  PORTER  voted  in  the  Legislature  to  instruct  the 
congressional  delegation  of  Pennsylvania  to  use  their  influence  for  the  abolition  of  slavery  in 
the  District  of  Columbia. 

t "  He  [Martin  Van  Buren]  thinks  the  abolitionists  maybe  put 


THE  RESPONSE.  109 

Go,  hunt  sedition. — Search  for  that 

In  every  pedler's  cart  of  rags  ; 
Pry  into  every  Quaker's  hat. 

And  DOCTOR  FUSSELL'S  saddle  bags  ! 
Lest  treason  wrap,  with  all  its  ills, 
Around  his  powders  and  his  pills. 

Where  Chester's  oak  and  walnut  shades 

With  slavery-laden  breezes  stir, 
And  on  the  hills,  and  in  the  glades 

Of  Bucks  and  honest  Lancaster, 
Are  heads  which  think  and  hearts  which  feel — 
Flints  to  the  Abolition  steel  ! 

Ho  !  send  ye  down  a  corporal's  guard 

With  flow  of  flag  and  beat  of  drum — 
Storm  LINDLEY  COATES'S  poultry  yard, 

Beleaguer  THOMAS  WHITSON'S  home  i 
Beat  up  the  Quaker  quarters — show 
Your  valor  to  an  unarmed  foe  • 

Do  more.     Fill  up  your  loathsome  jails 

With  faithful  men  and  women — set 
The  scaffold  up  in  these  green  vales, 

And  let  their  verdant  turf  be  wet 
With  blood  of  unresisting  men — 
Ay,  do  all  this,  and  more, — WHAT  THEN  ? 

Think  ye,  one  heart  of  man  and  child 

Will  falter  from  his  lofty  faith, 
At  the  mob's  tumult,  fierce  and  wild — 

The  prison  cell — the  shameful  death  ? 
No ! — nursed  in  storm  and  trial  long, 
The  weakest  of  our  band  is  strong  ! 

Oh !  while  before  us  visions  come 

Of  slave  ships  on  Virginia's  coast — 
Of  mothers  in  their  childless  home, 

Like  Rachel,  sorrowing  o'er  the  lost — • 
The  slave-gang  scourged  upon  its  way — 
The  bloodhound  and  his  human  prey — 

We  cannot  falter !     Did  we  so, 

The  stones  beneath  would  murmur  out, 

And  all  the  winds  that  round  us  blow 
Would  whisper  of  our  shame  about. 

No  !  let  the  tempest  rock  the  land, 

Our  faith  shall  live — our  truth  shall  stand. 

True  as  the  Vaudois  hemmed  around 

With  Papal  fire  and  Roman  steel — 
Firm  as  the  Christian  heroine  bound 

Upon  Domitian's  torturing  wheel, 
We  'bate  no  breath — we  curb  no  thought — 
Come  what  may  come,  WE  FALTER  NOT  1 


HO  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION 
OP  THE  FRIENDS  OP  EMANCIPATION,  HELD  IN  LONDON  IN  1840. 

YES,  let  them  gather ! — Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 

The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol -bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking ; 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  children  know — 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 
Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each  other, 
And  know  in  each,  a  friend  and  brother  I 

Yes,  let  them  come  !   from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand ! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Gennesaret ; 

Or  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled ! 
Not  for  the  long  deserted  shrine, — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sigh 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod ; — 
But  for  the  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  His  holy  sandals  pressed — 
The  fountain  which  His  lip  hath  blessed — 
Whate'er  hath  touched  His  garment's  hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  riverside. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping  poor 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 

To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb — 

The  bolt  from  every  prison  door! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  Earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again ; 
And  Erin's  ' '  harp  on  Tara's  wall " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  mid  bursts  of  gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves: 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 

Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note- 
As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 

And  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Rhone, — 
"Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side — 
Brissot  and  eloquent  Gregoire — 
When  with  free  lip  and  heart  of  fire 


112  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  Haytien  told  his  country's  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him,  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  whereso'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come — from  Quito's  walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan, — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  RIGHTS  OF  MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom's  flowing  pennon 
And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain, 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile ! — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gezeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotos  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hollowed  waters — 
Where'er  is  heard  thy  prophet's  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters, — 
The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
For  evermore  shall  pass  from  thee; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibraham, 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION.  H3 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth — 

The  herald -sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  ! 
Oh!  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward-tending  star  ? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 

Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  king, 
To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 

To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning! 
"Aha!  and  art  thou  fallen  thus  ? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us  ?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers t — there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Un weakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame, — 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong — 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 
Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they ! — but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering ! — peaceful  all — 
No  threat  of  war — no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother; 
But  in  their  stead  the  God-like  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood  — 
The  children  of  a  common  God ! — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred; 
Spain  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain  side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers — 
Her  lemon  groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear; 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS 

And  where  my  country'?  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing 

Above  the  Nation's  council-halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While,  close  beneath  the  outward  walls, 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow: 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand — 
Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 
Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel — 
Through  cottage-door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn — 
And  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 
On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow ; 
From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 
Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 
Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 
The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim  — 
Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a  sin-accursed  world  ! 
Its  wizard-leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 
With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall  1 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise  : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done — 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  ; — 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending; 

Her  legal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger! — = 
Oh  !  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given  ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 

Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears — 
The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  ! 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  H5 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE.— 1845. 

GOD  bless  New  Hampshire ! — from  her  granite  peaks 
Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon  speaks. 
The  long  bound  vassal  of  the  exulting  South 

For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain  has  broken — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 

And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken  ! 
Oh,  all  undreamed  of,  all  unhoped-for  changes  ! — 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe ; 
To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No  ! 
Who  is  it  now  despairs  ?  Oh,  faint  of  heart, 

Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains  cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  unrolled, 
And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier  part ! 
All  is  not  lost.  The  angel  of  God's  blessing 

Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 

Unlocked  for  allies,  striking  for  the  right! 
Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts! — Be  firm,  be  true: 
What  one  brave  State  hatli  done,  can  ye  not  also  do  ? 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 
ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  THE  PENNSYLVANIA  FREEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore — 

The  echo  fading  from  the  chime — 
Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 

The  dial-plate  of  time ! 

Oh,  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 

With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 
Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 

That  time  shall  be  no  more ! — 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed ; 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

Oh !  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 

The  sum  of  all  since  time  began — 
The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 

Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  the  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  winter's  chain, 


116  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly-growing  grain; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  the  hilltops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm — • 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud  ! — 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves, 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 
And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  : — 

And  man — in  whom  an  angel's  mind 

With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode— 
The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 
Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's  breast, 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage -bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all — the  human  slave  — 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave — 
His  regal  manhood  gone ! 

Oh !  still  my  country !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains— 
Ao  uncreated  man ! 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 

My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 
With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 

A  stain  on  every  fold. 

Oh,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down  I 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile,  and  good  men  frown, 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame !  shame !  its  starry  splendors  glow 

Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail — 
Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 

His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 

The  trade  of  human  flesh  is  driven, 
And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 

A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men, 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet  shame  upon  them ! — there  they  sit, 

Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still; 
Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 

To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold — bargained  off  for  Southern  votes — 

A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 
Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 

Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he* — the  basest  of  the  base — 

The  vilest  of  the  vile — whose  name, 
Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 

Is  deathless  in  its  shame ! — 

A  tool — to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there,-— 

An  ass — to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer ! 

Nailed  to  the  self-made  gibbet  fast, 

Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view — • 
A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 

Of  scorn  to  whistle  through ; 

*  The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional  rule  against  receiving  petitions  of  the  peopl? 
on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 


118  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  SoXithrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool — 

A  St.  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule!  " 

Look  we  at  home ! — our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven — 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom — 
The  fiendish  mob — the  prostrate  law — 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State— the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him : — and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 
That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease. 

And  those  whom  God  created  men, 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm, 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard 
Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right: 

Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word — 
Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay — 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades, 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  (Conscience  quake, 
,  Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA.  H9 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 

The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 
Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 

Beneath  Arabia's  skies: 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 

Our  banner's  shade — our  eagle's  wing, 
From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 

To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain — and  gone 

The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 
And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn, 

A  New  and  Happy  Year. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  refer 
ence  to  GEORGE  LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts 
will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro  SOMERSET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay : — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow ; 

And  to  the  land  breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia !  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank — 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which 

man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea  boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?    Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array  ? 


120  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LIBERTY  on  DEATH!  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?    If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory — false  to  the  faith  they  loved ; 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  blood-hound's  yell — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves! 

Thank  God !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow,  and  calm,  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  despair; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den  1 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginian  name ; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe — 

We  wash  our  hands  forever,  of  your  sin,  and  shame,  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain  men: 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's  warning  spoke; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke  1 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high, — 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply ; 


THE  RELIC.  12) 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics  sprang ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex — of  thousands  as  of  one — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington— 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages ;  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round ; — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God  save  Latimer!" 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray — 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay ! 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts!     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud— the  sound  of  many  waters! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  'State!    No  slave  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !    In  calmness  we  have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn ; 
You've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels — you've  hunted  for  our  lives — 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and  gyves! 

We  wage  no  war — we  lift  no  arm — we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God -like  soul  of  man ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity,  is  registered  in  Heaven ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders — no  pirate  on  our  strand! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State — no  slave  upon  our  land  ! 


THE  RELIC. 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion  and  the  cause  of  Human  Liberty,  was 
estroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838.     The  following  was  writte 
fragment  of  the  wood-work  which  the  fire  had  spared.] 


destroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838.     The  following  was  written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought  from  a 
;  of  the 


TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 
Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  \ 


122  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 

A  memory  doubly  dear — 
Earth's  noblest  aim — man's  holiest  thought, 
With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought  ! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers  unfold 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 

Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 
In  beauty  blossoming  : 

And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 

Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine  ! — a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning ! — let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me  \ — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  uuberef t ! 

Oh !  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon ; 

Or  olive  bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopyla? : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary, — 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story, — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  druids  blessed ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "rough  burr  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannpckburn — 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows  !— 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 

To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned — 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod, 

Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 
Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 

Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 

For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding ! — 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

Where  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 

And  curses  on  the  night  air  flung, 
That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 

From  woman's  earnest  tongue ; 
And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 
Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies ! — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  grave-stone  over  buried  Right! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stone^  themselves  are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying ! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 

Oh,  holy  Freedom ! — hath  to  me 
A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 

To  testify  of  thee ; 
And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 
A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 
Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES.— 1844. 

[Written  on  reading  the  sentence  of  JOHN  L.  BROWN  of  South  Carolina,  to  b«  executed  on 
the  25th  of  4th  month,  1844,  for  the  crime  of  assisting  a  female  slave  to  escape  from  bondage. 
The  sentence  was  afterward  commuted.]. 

Ho !  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 

A  license  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  hell's  red  wrong, 

Man  of  the  pulpit,  look ! — 
Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see ; 
And  tell  us  how  to  Heaven  will  rise 
The  incense  of  this  sacrifice — 

This  blossom  of  the  Gallows  Tree!— 


124  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Search  out  for  SLAVERY'S  hour  of  need 

Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ ;  * 
Give  Heaven  the  credit  of  a  deed 

Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 
Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 

Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a  lie, 
Ask  that  His  bright-winged  cherubim 
May  bend  around  that  scaffold  grim 

To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify  !— 

Ho!  champion  of  the  people's  cause — 

Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 
Of  foreign  wrong  and  Old  World  laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look  ! — 
Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free, — 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time, — 
That  Slavery's  poison  vine  should  be 
Upborne  by  Freedom's  prayer-nursed  tree, 

O'erclustered  with  such  fruits  of  crime  ?— • 

Send  out  the  summons,  East  and  West, 

.And  South  and  North,  let  all  be  there, 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 

Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 
Lei  not  a  democratic  hand 

The  grisly  hangman's  task  refuse; 
There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand 
Awaiting  Slavery's  command 

To  twist  the  rope  and  draw  the  noose ! 

But  vain  is  irony — unmeet 

Its  cold  rebuke  for  deeds  which  start 
In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  heart. 
Leave  studied  wit,  and  guarded  phrase; 

And  all  that  kindled  heart  can  feel 
Speak  out  in  earnest  words  which  raise, 
Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering  blaze, 

Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from  steel 

Still  let  a  mousing  priesthood  ply 

Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 
And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 

Its  living  soul  within; 
Still  let  the  place-feed  titled  knave 

Plead  Robbery's  right  with  purchased  lips, 
And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 
For  Freedom's  pedestal,  a  slave, 

For  frieze  and  moulding,  chains  and  whips ! — 

*  Three  new  publications,  from  the  pens  of  Dr.  Junkin,  President  of  Miami  College,  Alex 
ander  McCaine  of  the  Methodist  Protestant  church,  and  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Cincinnati 
Synod,  defending  Slavery  on  Scriptural  ground,  have  recently  made  their  appearance. 


STANZAS  FOR  TIMES.  125 

But  ye  who  own  that  higher  law 

Whose  tables  in  the  heart  are  set, 
Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 

That  God  is  living  yet! 
Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones  sublime 

Which  thrilled  the  burdened  prophet's  lyre, 
And  in  a  dark  and  evil  time 
Smote  down  on  Israel's  fast  of  crime 

And  gift  of  blood,  a  rain  of  fire  ! 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay, 

To  whose  soft  measures  lightly  move 
The  Dryad  and  the  woodland  Fay, 

O'erlooked  by  Mirth  and  Love ; 
But  such  a  stern  and  startling  strain 

As  Britain's  hunted  bards  flung  down 
From  Snowden,  to  the  conquered  plain, 
Where  harshly  clanked  the  Saxon  chain 

On  trampled  field  and  smoking  town. 

By  Liberty's  dishonored  name, 

By  man's  lost  hope,  and  failing  trust, 
By  words  and  deeds,  which  bow  with  shame 

Our  foreheads  to  the  dust, — 
By  the  exulting  tyrant's  sneer, 

.Borne  to  us  from  the  Old  World's  thrones, 
And  by  their  grief,  who  pining  hear, 
In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 

How  Freedom's  land  her  faith  disowns; — 

Speak  out  in  acts  ;  the  time  for  words 

Has  passed,  and  deeds  alone  suffice; 
In  the  loud  clang  of  meeting  swords 

The  softer  music  dies ! 
Act — act,  in  God's  name,  while  ye  may, 

Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous  limb, 
Throw  open  to  the  light  of  day 
The  bondman's  cell,  and  break  away 

The  chains  the  state  has  bound  on  him. 

Ho!  every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom's  perilled  altar  bear 
The  freeman's  and  the  Christian's  whole, 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer! 
One  last  great  battle  for  the  Right, — 

One  short,  sharp  struggle  to  be  free ! — 
To  do  is  to  succeed — our  fight 
Is  waged  in  Heaven's  approving  sight — 

The  smile  of  God  is  Victory ! 


126  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 

[CAPTAIN  JONATHAN  WALKER,  of  Harwich,  Mass.,  was  solicited  by  several  fugitive  slaves  at 
Pensacola,  Florida,  to  convey  them  in  his  vessel  to  the  British  West  Indies.  Although  well 
aware  of  the  hazard  of  the  enterprise,  he  attempted  to  comply  with  their  request.  He  was  seized 
by  an  American  vessel,  consigned  to  the  American  authorities  at  Key  West,  and  by  them  taken 
back  to  Florida — where,  after  a  long  and  rigorous  imprisonment,  he  was  brought  to  trial.  He 
was  sentenced  to  be  branded  on  the  right  hand  with  the  letters  "  S.  S."  (''Slave  Stealer") 
and  amerced  in  a  heavy  fine.  He  was  released  on  the  payment  of  his  fine  in  the  6th  month  of 
1845-] 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman!  with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and 

gray, 

And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve,  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?    Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  His  holiest  work  thy  shame? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn ! 

They  change  to  wrong,  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity  too  legible  for  doubt ! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  footsole  up  to  crown, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and  renown ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor!— than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon  set ; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  BRANDED  HAND  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcomed,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances,  and  of  Paynim  scimitars. 

The  pallor  of  the  prison  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man! 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave, 
Thou  for  His  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave ; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God ! 

For,  while  the  jurist  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 
From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung, 
And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God -deserted  shrine, 
Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood  for 
wine — 

While  tin:  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour  knelt, 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt; 
Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison  shadows  dim, 
And  thy  rnercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  Him! 

In  the  lone  and  long  night  watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 

Thou  did'st  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  school-men  know; 


TEXAS. 


127 


God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  His  angels  only  can, 

That  the  one,  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven  is  ManJ 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right  hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  SALVATION  TO  THE  SLAVE!  " 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  Northern  air — 
Ho !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God  look  there ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard — like  the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan  line: 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches,  and  the  Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that  hand  I 


TEXAS. 

VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe — 

It  is  coming — it  is  nigh ! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 

On  your  own  free  thresholds  die ! 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal  fires! 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 
Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 
Let    the     flame -tongued    heralds 
speak ! 

O  !  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves,  of  the  land ! 


Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party — perish  clan ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man! 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time — 

With    one   heart    and   with    one 

mouth, 

Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong} 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long- 


128 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand- wrought 

rope 

Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered    over    heaven's    blue 

cope ! 

"Give  us  bright  though    broken 

rays, 

Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding    o'er    the    full-orbed- 
blaze  1 

"Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom ; 
Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 
For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and 
loom ; 

"  Take      your     slavery-blackened 

vales : 

Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails! 

"Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain 

apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will: 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow   and  deepen 
still! 

"  With  your  bondman's  right  arm 

bare, 

With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare ! 

;<  Onward  with  your  fell  design; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and 
this, 

ye  feel  your  helplessness, 


"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"  And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward        through        your 

generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"Our  bleak  hills    shall  bud  and 

blow, 

Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ; — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your 

skies, 

Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise ! 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's    strong    and    honest 
hand, — 

"  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  1  " 


TO  FAKEUIL  HALL 

MEN  ! — if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused   by    wrong    or    stung   by 
shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still: — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die: 

Shut    the    mill-gate — lea\e    the 

stall- 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by — 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs   which      freemen      never 

brooked — 
Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 

Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 
On  your  fathers'  way ; — 

These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 
Shaking  with  their  earthquake- 
call 

Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land— 
Ho,  to  Fa.ueuil 


TEXAS. 


129 


From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering 
stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold — 
Come,   and  with    your    footsteps 
wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall : 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun ; 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern 

plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains ! 
Speak  as  weli  becomes  the  free — 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faueuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us?     Let  us 

then 
Render   back    nor    threats    nor 

prayers ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born 

men? 

LET  US  UNCHAIN  THEIRS ! 

Up  !  your  banner  leads  the  van, 
Blazoned  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 

Finish  what  your  sires  began — 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 

WRITTEN  DURING  THE  PENDING  OF 
THE  TEXAS  QUESTION. 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

CKve  heaven  the  light  of  thine  I 


What  though  unthrilled,  unmov- 
ing, 

The  statesman  stands  apart, 
And  comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart? 

Still  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own  ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone? 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud  : 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
Oh,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  Fatherland,  be  true ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Free 
dom! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  Sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land ! 
On  they  come — the  free  battalions  1 

East  and  West  and  North  they 

come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  Slaves !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread  I 
The  land  is  roused — its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead  I 


130  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  PINE  TREE. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine  Tree  on  our  banner's  tattered  field, 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "  THUS  SAITH  THE 

LORD ! " 

Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom! — set  the  battle  in  array! — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs — cease  your  paltry  pedler  cries — 

Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 

Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton  ? — That  your  gains  may  be  the  same, 

Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children  through  the  flame  ? 

Is  the  dollar  only  real  ? — God  and  truth  and  right  a  dream  ? 

Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood  kick  the  beam  ? 

Oh,  my  God  ! — for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down ! — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets  to  cry : 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts! — Set  your  feet  on  Mammon's  lie! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic — spin  your  cotton's  latest  pound — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor — keep  the  hearu  o'  the  Bay  State 
sound ! " 

Where's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts  ? — Where's  the  voice  to  speak  her 

free  ?— 

Where's  the  hane  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  mountains  to  the  sea  ? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer? — Sits  she  dumb  in  her  despair ? — 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ? — Has  she  none  to  do  and  dare  ? 
Oh  my  God!  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine  Tree  in  her  banner's  tattered  field  1 


LINES. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY  OF  WASHINGTON  IN  THE  12TH 
MONTH  OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 

Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half-built  town  out 
spread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side ; 

Toiler,   idler,   slave  and  master,   in  the  same  quick  current 
glide. 


LINES.  131 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largest,  base  and  small, 

"Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs  which  from  its 
table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !     They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place: 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 
Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 

For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great  hope  of  their 
race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air ; 

And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  measures  sweet  and 
rare: 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 

With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which  God  and  Truth 
condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the  scene  and  witness  change. 

Hark  !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 

On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God !— Is  that  a  WOMAN 

On  whose  wrists  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 

Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 

Are  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that  sad  procession 
flash? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gaily  onward ! 
What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride, 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  SLAVE-SHIP  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on  Potomac's  tide  I 


132  WHIT-TIER'S  POEMS. 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 

Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave  in  anguish 
call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 
Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the  hollow  show! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 

In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,   yet  shall  bear  their  generous 
part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 
Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 

Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing: 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words  ' '  BE  FREE  ! '' 
Tarrieth  long  the  laud's  Good  Angel,  but  his  advent  is  to  be ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the  Slaves,  to-night  I 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day : " 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a  Voice  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  light, 

Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted  slowly  back  the  murk 
of  night!— 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast. 


LINES.  133 

While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  Seemed  an  echo  of  the  last! — 

Oh,  my  brothers!  oh,  my  sisters! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listening  to  the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear  I 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 
With  the  false  earth  mined  below — 

Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow  for  blow? 

Well  it  may  be  tbjat  our  natures 
Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 

And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 

From  a  purpose  true  and  brave ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 

Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is  most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 

Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?    Shall  we  cloud  their  blessed 
skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 

Which  have  fallen  in  our  way ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it  is  not  day  I 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

LINES 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERICAL  FRIEND. 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire  — 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim  — 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire  — 

Oh  !  Freedom's  God  !  be  Thou  to  him  ! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and  fear, 
As  through  Thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 

And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  Thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  Thy  blessing  seek, 

And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee. 

Let  then,  oh,  God!  Thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell  ! 

From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

Oh  !  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 
Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 
The  dawn  of  Thy  millennial  day;  — 

That  day,  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of  Thee  I 


YORKTOWK 

[DR.  THATCHER,  surgeon  in  SCAMMEL'S  regiment,  in  his  description  of  the  siege  of  Yorktown, 
says  :  "  The  labor  on  the  Virginia  plantations  is  performed  altogether  by  a  species  of  the  human 
race  cruelly  wrested  from  their  native  country,  and  doomed  to  perpetual  bondage,  while  their 
masters  are  manfully  contending  for  freedom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man  Such  is  the  in 
consistency  of  human  nature."  Eighteen  hundred  slaves  were  found  at  Yorktown,  after  its  sur 
render,  and  restored  to  their  masters.  Well  was  it  said  by  DR.  BARNES,  in  his  late  work  on 
Slavery:  "  No  slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after  the  surrender  of  Yorktown,  *han  when 
PATRICK  HENRY  first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Virginia.  "] 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill  : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington  I 


YORKTOWN.  135 

Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun. 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarlton's  troop  ride  bannerless: 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  1 

Nor  thou  alone :  with  one  glad  voice 

Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice; 

Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 

She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 

Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood, 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 

While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear: 

The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait  • 

Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate? 

Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 

Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 

With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 

With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 

With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn — 

Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born? 

Oh!  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  gravel 
Sons  of  the  North-land,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 

Lo!  threescore  years  have  passed;  and 
The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  a.ir, 


136  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

Oh!  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name ! 

Where's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war? 
Where  flows  its  stripe?    Where  burns  its  star? 
Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 
Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak : 
Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 
Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn ! 
Safe  now  is  Spielberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 
With  slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old? 


EGO. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BOOK  OF  A  FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 
The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace 
A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

Forever  as  these  lines  are  penned, 
Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 
That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend— 
Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  lovee,. 


EGO.  137 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ? — 

Oh  !  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment,  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  Fashion's  sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 

Forbid,  disowned, — what  do  they  here? — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "  temples  of  the  Lord  " 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek  ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform  ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy  land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 


138  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain 

In  vain  ! — nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 

From  youthful  hopes — from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 

Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn — 

Her  gifts  reclaimed — her  smiles  withdrawn  ? 

What  matters  it  ! — a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore  1 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  ' '  seek  and  save. " 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true — 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly's  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not — 

A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
"  The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless — 


EGO.  139 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing, — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me — 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity ! — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  head-stone  creep — 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine — 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 
No  gay  and  graceful  offering- 
No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh  May, 
With  Fancy's  leaf-unwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human  kind — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom — 


140  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy — 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 

Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  twine 

Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


TO  GOV.   M'DUFFIE. 

"  The  patriarchal  institution  of  slavery,"—"  the  corner-stone  of  our  republican  edifice."— 
Gov.  ATDuffie. 

KING  of  Carolina — hail ! 

Last  champion  of  Oppression's  battle ! 
Lord  of  rice-tierce  and  cotton-bale ! 

Of  sugar-box  and  human  cattle ! 
Around  thy  temples,  green  and  dark, 

Thy  own  tobacco-wreath  reposes ; 
Thyself,  a  brother  Patriarch 

Of  Isaac,  Abraham,  and  Moses  ! 

Why  not  ?— Their  household  rule  is  thine, 

Like  theirs,  thy  bondmen  feel  its  rigor ; 
And  thine,  perchance,  as  concubine, 

Some  swarthy  counterpart  of  Hagar. 
Why  not  ? — Like  patriarchs  of  old, 

The  priesthood  is  thy  chosen  station ; 
Like  them  thou  payest  thy  rites  to  gold — 

An  Aaron's  calf  of  Nullification. 

All  fair  and  softly ! — Must  we,  then, 

From  Ruin's  open  jaws  to  save  us, 
Upon  our  own  free  workingmen 

Confer  a  master's  special  favors  ? 
Whips  for  the  back — chains  for  the  heels — 

Hooks  for  the  nostrils  of  Democracy;. , 
Before  it  spurns  as  well  as  feels 

The  riding  of  the  Aristocracy ! 

Ho ! — fishermen  of  Marblehead ! 

Ho ! — Lynn  cordwainers,  leave  your  leather 
And  wear  the  yoke  in  kindness  made, 

And  clank  your  needful  chains  together  I 
Let  Lowell  mills  their  thousands  yield, 

Down  let  the  rough  Vermonter  hasten, 
Down  from  the  workshop  and  the  field, 

And  thank  us  for  each  chain  we  fasten. 

SLAVES  in  the  rugged  Yankee  land ! 

I  tell  thee,  Carolinian,  never! 
Our  rocky  hills  and  iron  strand 

Are  free,  and  shall  be  free  forever. 


TO  GOV.  M'DUFFIE. 

The  surf  shall  wear  that  strand  away, 
Our  granite   hills  in  dust  shall  moulder, 

Ere  Slavery's  hateful  yoke  shall  lay, 
Unbroken,  on  a  Yankee's  shoulder ! 

No,  George  M'Duffie  '.—keep  thy  words 

For  the  mail  plunderers  of  thy  city, 
Whose  robber-right  is  in  their  swords; 

For  recreant  Priest  and  Lynch -Committee ! 
Go,  point  thee  to  thy  cannon's  mouth, 

And  swear  its  brazen  lips  are  better, 
To  guard  "the  interests  of  the  South." 

Than  parchment  scroll,  or  Charter's  letter.* 

"We  fear  not.     Streams  which  brawl  most  loud 

Along  their  course,  are  of  tenest  shallow ; 
And  loudest  to  a  doubting  crowd 

The  coward  publishes  his  valor. 
Thy  courage  has  at  least  been  shown 

In  many  a  bloodless  Southern  quarrel, 
Facing,  with  hartshorn  and  cologne, 

The  Georgian's  harmless  pistol-barrel. f 

No,  Southron !  not  in  Yankee  land 

Will  threats,  like  thine,  a  fear  awaken  ; 
The  men,  who  on  their  charter  stand 

For  truth  and  right,  may  not  be  shaken. 
Still  shall  that  truth  assail  thine  ear ; 

Each  breeze,  from  Northern  mountains  blowing, 
The  tones  of  Liberty  shall  bear 

God's  ' '  free  incendiaries  "  going ! 

We  give  thee  joy! — thy  name  is  heard 

With  reverence  on  the  Neva's  borders ; 
And  "turban'd  Turk,"  and  Poland's  lord, 

And  Metternich  are  thy  applauders. 
Go — if  thou  lov'st  such  fame,  and  share 

The  mad  Ephesian's  base  example — 
The  holy  bonds  of  UNION  tear, 

And  clap  the  torch  to  FREEDOM'S  temple  \ 

Do  this — Heaven's  frown,  thy  country's  curse 

Guilt's  fiery  torture  ever  burning — 
The  quenchless  thirst  of  Tantalus, 

And  Ixion's  wheel  forever  turning — 
A  name,  for  which  ' '  the  pain'dest  fiend 

Below  "  his  own  would  barter  never, — 
These  shall  be  thine  unto  the  end 

Thy  damning  heritage  forever! 

*  See  Speech  of  Gov.  M'D.  to  an  artillery  company  in  Charleston,  S.  C. 

t  Most  of  our  readers  will  recollect  the  "  chivalrous  "  affair  between  M'Duffie  and  Col.  Cunv 
mings,  of  Georgia,  some  years  ago,  in  which  the  parties  fortified  themselves  with  spirits  of  harts 
horn  and  eau  de  Cologne. 


142 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


LINES. 

Written  on  reading  "WRIGHT  AND  WRONG  IN  BOSTON;"  containing  an  account  of  the 
meeting  of  the  Boston  Female  Anti-Slavery  Society,  and  the  MOB  which  followed,  on  the  2ist 
of  the  loth  month,  1835. 


UNSHRINKING  from  the  storm, 

Well  have  ye  borne  your  part, 
With  WOMAN'S  fragile  form, 

But  more  than  manhood's  heart ! 
Faithful  to  Freedom,  when 

Its  name  was  held  accursed — 
Faithful,  midst  ruffian  men, 

Unto  your  holy  trust. 

Oh— steadfast  in  the  Truth ! 

Not  for  yourselves  alone, 
Matron  and  gentle  youth, 

Your  lofty  zeal  was  shown: 
For  the  bondman  of  all  climes — 

For  Freedom's  last  abode — 
For  the  hope  of  future  times — 

For  the  birthright  gift  of  God— 

For  scorn'd  and  broken  laws — 

For  honor  and  the  right — 
For  the  staked  and  peril'd  cause 

Of  liberty  and  light— 
For  the  holy  eyes  above 

On  a  world  of  evil  cast — 
For  the  CHILDREN  of  your  love — 

For  the  MOTHERS  of  the  past ! 

Worthy  of  THEM  are  ye  — 
The  Pilgrim  wives  who  dared 

The  waste  and  unknown  sea, 
And  the  hunter's  perils  shared. 


Worthy  of  her  *  whose  mind, 

Triumphant  over  all, 
Ruler  nor  priest  could  bind, 

Nor  banishment  appal. 

Worthy  of  her  f  who  died 

Martyr  of  Freedom,  where 
Your  "  Commons'  "  verdant  pride, 

Opens  to  sun  and  air: 
Upheld  at  that  dread  hour 

By  strength  which  could  not  fail ; 
Before  whose  holy  power 

Bigot  and  priest  turn'd  pale, 

God  give  ye  strength  to  run, 

Unawed  by  Earth  or  Hell, 
The  race  ye  have  begun 

So  gloriously  and  well, 
Until  the  trumpet-call 

Of  Freedom  has  gone  forth, 
With  joy  and  life  to  all 

The  bondmen  of  the  earth  I 

Until  IMMORTAL  MIND 

Unshackled  walks  abroad, 
And  chains  no  longer  bind 

The  image  of  our  God 
Until  no  captive  one 

Murmurs  on  land  or  wave ; 
And,  in  his  course,  the  sun 

Looks  down  upon  no  SLAVE  ! 


LINES. 

Written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions,  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  and  tha 
passage  of  Calhoun's  "  Bill  of  Abominations"  to  a  second  reading,  in  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States. 

Now,  by  our  fathers'  ashes !  where's  the  spirit 

Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 

Their  names  alone  ? 

*  Mrs.  Hutchinson,  who  was  banished  from  the  Massachusetts  Colony,  as  the  easiest  method 
of  confuting  her  doctrines. 

t  Mary  Dyer,  the  Quaker  Martyr,  who  was  hanged  in  Boston  in  1659  for  worshiping  God 
according  to  the  dictates  of  her  conscience. 


LINES.  143 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quench'd  within  us? 

Stoops  the  proud  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low, 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 

To  silence  now? 

No.     When  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 

SILENCE  is  CRIME  ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Rights  all  our  own?    In  madness  shall  we  barter, 
For  treacherous  peace,  the  FREEDOM  Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  seek  the  free  to  fetter? 
Here  Lynch  law  light  its  horrid  fires  on  high? 
And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skill 'd  abettor, 

Make  truth  a  lie? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallow'd  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 

Both  man  and  God? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way, 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger    *       • 

Day  after  day  ? 

Oh,  no;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  mountains — 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges — from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff — 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought  farmer — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel — 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 

A  PEOPLE'S  VOICE! 

Startling  and  stern !  the  Northern  winds  shall  bear  it 
Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 


144:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

Oh,  let  that  voice  go  fortli  1    The  bondman  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth  !    The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 

Oh,  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wrong'd  captive,  bleeding,  crush'd,  and 
lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  I 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  peril'd  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 

The  fire  awake ! 

Prayer-strengthen'd  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  heavenly  Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  EIGHT  I 


MISCELLAKEOUS. 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judea !  thrice  hallowed  of  song 
Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like  throng; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy  sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  before ; 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills ! — in  my  spirit  I  hear 

Thy  waters,  Gennesaret,  chime  on  my  ear ; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat  down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  His  saDdals  was  thrown. 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O  dark  Galilee ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley !  where,  swollen  and  strong, 
Thy  river,  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along ; 
Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Jehovah  in  vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern  Zebulon  came, 
And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eye-balls  of  flame, 
And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam's  son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns  which  rang 
To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,  and  the  valleys  between  j 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm  trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  His  feet  ? 
145 


146  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

I  tread  where  the  TWELVE  in  their  way-faring  trod ; 
I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  CHOSEN  OF  GOD — 
Where  His  blessing  was  heard  and  His  lessons  were  taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing  was  wrought. 

Oh,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came — 
These  hills  He  toiled  over  in  grief,  are  the  same — 
The  founts  where  He  drank  by  the  wayside  still  flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed  on  His  brow! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her  feet; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath  gone, 
And  the  Holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  God  ? 
Where  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  Him! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 

In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among  men ; 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves  of  the  sea, 

In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  He  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bowed  him  to  bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer  ? 

Yet  loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here; 
And  the  voice  of  Thy  love  is  the  same  even  now, 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb,  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

Oh,  the  outward  hath  gone ! — but  in  glory  and  power, 
The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same ! 


EZEKIEL. 
CHAPTER   XXXIIT.   30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  O  God !  nor  see: 
Beneath  Thy  rod  they  mock  at  Thee ; 
The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 
Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine; 
The  priests  around  Thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek; 
And  hymn  which  Chaldea's  wanton  maids 
Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades, 
Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 
With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending! 


EZEKIEL.  147 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 

The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 

The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 

Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 

Our  wasted  shrines — who  weeps  for  them? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 

Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away  ? 

Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray  ? 

Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 

Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  ? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment ; 
And  whdre  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 

Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour; 

From  off  unutterable  woes 

The  curtain  of  the  future  rose ; 

I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 

The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime ; 

With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 

Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 

I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 

Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white  wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain; 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne ; 
And,  woe  is  me !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 


14:8  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay ; 

And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 

The  coming  of  Assyria's  war, — 

Her  swarthy  lines   of  spearmen  pass 

Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron's  grass; 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 

Of  battle  round  Jerusalem ; 

And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 

Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word  ? 

Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 

How  mocked  the  rude — how  scoffed  the  vile— 

How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 

As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 

The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe, 

As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 

Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 

And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 

The  picture  of  its  great  despair ! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite,  gather  near, 
And  Salem's  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  oh  Prophet -bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actors'  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  Godlike  power  of  Him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH.  149 

And  meaningless  the  watch  He  kept 
Through  which  His  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far  discerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies! 
Beyond  a  narrow -bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 

Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel-trod, 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of  God! 
Thy  audience,  worlds !— all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah  on  its  rocky  height 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light. 

Down  Eshtaol's  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest !  how  our  fair  child's  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies.  * 

Oh !  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I've  watched  with  mingled  joy  and  dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had  flown, 
When  to  her  bosom,  ever  blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will ; 
Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice. — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 

When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 

And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 

Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through  the  flame  f 


150  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 
The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes, — 
Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 

I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  His  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  His  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke, 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD  I  saw! 

A  child  no  more ! — harsh-browed  and  strong 
He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and  bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm — he  smote  amain, 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priests,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not ;  stark,  gaunt,  and  blind, 
His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined, — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked — the  trumpets  pealed- 
He  stooped — the  giant  columns  reeled — 
Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and  wall, 
And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er  all ! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry. — 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  ^,!r?Tjigh  the  golden  eventide, 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

Of  him,  who  on  thy  altar's  blaze 

Rose  fire-winged,  \vitk  his  song  of  praise! 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain! 
Rejoice  !  "  it  cried,  "  He  vanquisheth! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death ! 

"  To  him  shall  Zorah's  daughters  raise 
Through  coming  years  their  hymns  of  praise, 
And  gray  old  men,  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 

"  And  they  who  sing  and  they  who  hear 
Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 
Oh,  mother  of  the  mighty  dead !  " 

It  ceased :  and  though  a  sound  I  heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 
I  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves, 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 

On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near, 

"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 

Oh  God  1 "  I  said,  "  THY  WILL  BE  DONE  1 " 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

S 

"  GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's  terrible  day  I 
Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 
'Tis  the  vintage  of  blood — ''tis  the  fulness  of  time, 
And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  harvest  of  crime !  " 

The  warning  was  spoken — the  righteous  had  gone, 
And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were  feasting  alone ; 
All  gay  was  the  banquet — the  revel  was  long, 
With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the  breathing  of  song. 

'Twas  an  evening  of  beauty ;  the  air  was  perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees  were  all  bloom; 
And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes  of  a  bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down  in  the  dance, 
With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine  of  glance: 
And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and  tresses  fell  free, 
As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  tropical  tree. 


152  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were  lighted  on  high, 
And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of  the  eye; 
Midst  rites  of  obsceneness,  strange,  loathsome,  abhorred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

Hark!  the  growl  of  the  thunder — the  quaking  of  earth! 
Woe — woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to  the  mirth ! 
The  black  sky  has  opened — there's  flame  in  the  air — 
The  red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted  and  bare ! 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild  where  the  song 
And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been  whispered  along; 
For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'er  palace  and  bower, 
Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast  and  devour  1 

Down — down,  on  the  fallen,  the  red  ruin  rained, 
And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine-cup  undrained; 
The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music's  loved  thrill, 
And  the  shout  and  the  laughter  grew  suddenly  still. 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fearfully  given; 
The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  madness  on  Heaven! 
The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and  vain, 
And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of  the  Plain  ! 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judea's  hills ! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea! 
Most  freshly  from  the  greenwood  springs 
The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon ! 

A  few  more  hours — a  change  hath  come ! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud  1 
The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 

And  proud  knees  unto  earth  are  bowed. 
A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice ! 

That  Sacrifice !— the  death  of  Him— 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One ! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow  dim, 

And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun! 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And  earthquake  from  his  caverned  bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread  1 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM.  153 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath  ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day  1 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 

Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod  ; 
Well  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God ! 
Well  may  the  temple-shrine  grow  dim, 
And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given  ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 

Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 

And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power  ? 
Oh,  shall  the  heart — whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  His  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  His  tears  of  blood — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude ! 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 

And  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with  flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 
The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long,  and  still,  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung, 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And  strange  bright  blossoms  shone  around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy  bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers,, 


154  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad, — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 
Nor  church  with  Sabbath  bell  chimes  glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 
And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white,  in  view, 

And  gray-beard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either  hand 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as  they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 
The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him  through. 

"  Ah  me !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And  light  from  Heaven  around  them  shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone ! 

"  Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 
For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in  ? 

Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in  flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding  place  of  sin  ? 

"A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell. 

"And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear  ? 

Dear  Lord  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 
Thy  strength  with  human  weakness  share ! " 

He  ceased ;  for  at  his  very  feet 
In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  child! 

Sown  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it  drew 
Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 

And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 
The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened; 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 
In.  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 


CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPEST.  155 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 

The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 
Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 

Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured  there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 

The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept, 
And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 

In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 

Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air ; 
And  angel  like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of  prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 

From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part; 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 

Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart ! 


CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPEST. 

STORM  on  the  heaving  waters ! — The  vast  sky 
Is  stooping  with  its  thunder.     Cloud  on  cloud 
Rolls  heavily  in  the  darkness,  like  a  shroud 
Shaken  by  midnight's  Angel  from  on  high, 
Through  the  thick  sea-mist,  faintly  and  afar, 
Chorazin's  watch-light  glimmers  like  a  star, 
And,  momently,  the  ghastly  cloud-fires  play 
On  the  dark  sea-wall  of  Capernaum's  bay, 
And  tower  and  turret  into  light  spring  forth 
Like  spectres  starting  from  the  storm-swept  earth 
And,  vast  and  awful,  Tabor's  mountain  form, 
Its  Titan  forehead  naked  to  the  storm, 
Towers  for  one  instant,  full  and  clear,  and  then 
Blends  with  the  blackness  and  the  cloud  again. 

And  it  is  very  terrible ! — The  roar 
Asceudeth  unto  heaven,  and  thunders  back, 
Like  the  response  of  demons,  from  the  black 

Rifts  of  the  hanging  tempest — yawning  o'er 

The  wild  waves  in  their  torment.     Hark ! — the  cry 
Of  strong  man  in  peril,  piercing  through 

The  uproar  of  the  waters  and  the  sky, 

As  the  rent  bark  one  moment  rides  to  view, 

On  the  tall  billows,  with  the  thunder  cloud 

Closing  around,  above  her,  like  a  shroud! 

He  stood  upon  the  reeling  deck — His  form 

Made  visible  by  the  lightning,  and  His  brow 

Pale,  and  uncover'd  to  the  rushing  storm, 
Told  of  a  triumph  man  may  never  know — 

Power  underived  and  mighty — "PEACE — BE  STILL!" 
The  great  waves  heard  Him,  and  the  storm's  loud  tone 


156  WHtTTIER'S  POEMS. 

Went  moaning  into  silence  at  His  will ; 
And  the  thick  clouds,  where  yet  the  lightning  shone, 
And  slept  the  latent  thunder,  roll'd  away, 
Until  no  trace  of  tempest  lurk'd  behind, 
Changing,  upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
To  stormless  wanderers,  beautiful  and  gay. 

Dread  Ruler  of  the  tempest !     Thou  before 

Whose  presence  boweth  the  uprisen  storm — 
To  whom  the  waves  do  homage  round  the  shore 

Of  many  an  Island  empire ! — if  the  form 
Of  the  frail  dust  beneath  Thine  eye,  may  claim 

Thy  infinite  regard — oh,  breathe  upon 
The  storm  and  darkness  of  man's  soul  the  same 
Quiet,  and  peace,  and  humbleness  which  came 

O'er  the  roused  waters,  where  Thy  voice  had  gone 
A  minister  of  power — to  conquer  in  Thy  name ! 


"KNOWEST  THOU  THE  ORDINANCES  OF  HEAVEN?" 

— Job  xxxvni.  33L 

LOOK  unto  heaven ! 

The  still  and  solemn  stars  are  burning  there, 
Like  altars  lighted  in  the  upper  air, 
And  to  the  worship  of  the  great  God  given, 
Where  the  pure  spirits  of  the  unsinning  dead, 
Redeem'd  and  sanctified  from  Earth,  might  shed 

The  holiness  of  prayer. 

Look  ye  above ! 

The  Earth  is  glorious  with  its  summer  wreath 
The  tall  trees  bend  with  verdure;  and,  beneath, 
Young  flowers  are  blushing  like  unwhisper'd  love. 
Yet  these  will  change — Earth's  glories  be  no  more, 
And  all  her  bloom  and  greenness  fade  before 

The  ministry  of  Death. 

Then  gaze  not  there. 

God's  constant  miracle — the  star-wrought  sky 
Bends  o'er  ye,  lifting  silently  on  high, 
As  with  an  Angel's  hand,  the  soul  of  prayer, 
And  heaven's  own  language  to  the  pure  of  Earth, 
Written  in  stars  at  Nature's  mighty  birth, 

Burns  on  the  gazing  eye. 

Oh!  turn  ye,  then, 

And  bend  the  knee  of  worship ;  and  the  eyes 
Of  the  pure  stars  shall  smile,  with  glad  surprise 
At  the  deep  reverence  of  the  sons  of  men. 
Oh!  bend  in  worship,  till  those  stars  grow  dim 
And  the  skies  vanish,  at  the  thought  of  Him 

Whose  light  beyond  them  lies! 


HYMNS. 


157 


HYMNS. 
FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  LAMAKTINE. 


ONE  hjrmn  more,  O  my  lyre  ! 

Praise  to  the  God  above, 

Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 
Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire  ! 

Oh  !  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 

And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 
That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 

My  resting  place  and  home  in  Thee  ?  — 
Thou,  whom  my  soul,  midst  doubt  and  gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame  — 
Mysterious  spirit  !  unto  whom 

Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 
Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God  !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  Thy  will, 
Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  Thee 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still  1 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glowing  ? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine, 

From  God's  own'  holy  altar  flowing  ? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long  — 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole  . 

Of  loveliness  and  song  ? 

Oh  !  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air  — 
Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

Oh  !  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there  ? 
Bend  there  around  His  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee  ? 
Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 

O  wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye  go  I 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled  wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  Godl 


158  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me  ? — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing- weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 

Which  shadow  Paradise  ? 

All-moving  spirit ! — freely  forth 

At  Thy  command  the  strong  wind  goes; 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine ; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  Thine  1 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark   caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast — 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee ! 

O  Thou  who  bidst  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind — 
Mover  of  all  things !  where  art  Thou  ? 

Oh,  whither  shaft  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  Thy  resting  place  ? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  Heaven  for  Thee  ? 

Oh,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 

As  leaves  on  Autumn's  whirlwind  borne— 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's  close, 

Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and  free 
Through  Earth  and  Heaven ;  that  I  might  lose 

Myself  in  finding  Thee ! 


When  the  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest — 
As  some  calm  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 


HYMNS. 

And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings: 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path: 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  East,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom: 

When  my  waking  fancies  over, 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
' '  HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD  ! " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  earth,  o'erflowing  still!— 

Then,  O  Father!— Thou  alone, 

From  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne, 

To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 

And  its  rapture  answerest. 

All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  winging, 

Bathe  where  Thy  own  light  is  springing — • 

All  rny  yearnings  to  be  free 

Are  as  echoes  answering  Thee! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 

Father  !  rests  that  name  of  Thine — 

Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 

Doth  the  dread  idea  rest  ! 

Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there — 

Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 

Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 

And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 

From  its  dark  but  cold  abode, 

TJnto  Thee,  my  Guide  and  God  1 


159 


160  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR 

[MARY  G ,  aged  eighteen,  a  "SISTER  OF  CHARITY,"  died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities, 

during  the  prevalence  of  the  Indian  Cholera,  while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon  the  sick.] 

"  BRING  out  your  dead  !  "  the  midnight  street 

Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 
Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet — 
Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet — 

Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What — only  one  !  "  The  brutal  hackman  said, 
As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by. 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof -fall! 
The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die ! — 
Onward  it  rolled ;  while  oft  its  driver  stayed, 
And  hoarsely  clamored,  "Ho  ! — bring  out  your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place; 

"  Toss  in  your  load !  "—and  it  was  done.— 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one — 
Stranger  and  friend— the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  church-yard  dust! 

And  thou,  young  martyr ! — thou  wast  there — 
No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod — 

Nor  holy  hymn  nor  funeral  prayer 

Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 
Giving  thee  to  thy  God ; 

Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper  gave 

Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer ! — there  shall  be. 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  con  vent -tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well, 

Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 

Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 
Far  more  than  words  may  tell: 

Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown— 

Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  I 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR.  161 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing, — where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

O  high-souled  martyr ! — thou  was  there, 

Inhaling  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 
Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread — 
A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 

Of  suffering  human-kind ! 
Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 
To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features — a  deliverer's  smile ! 

A  blessed  task ! — and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  springtime  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 

Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward ; 
Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear — 
Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 

Of  living  mortal  heard, — 

The  joys  prepared — the  promised  bliss  above— 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 

A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 
The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 
The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 

The  fire  of  poesy — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors; — thine 
Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall, — 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown — 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown — 

Perishing  glories  all  ! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part! 


162  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 

HE  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes !  You  may  trace  his  foot 
steps  now 

On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the  brown  hill's  withered 
brow. 

He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where  their  pleasant 
green  came  forth, 

And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have  shaken  them  down 
to  earth. 

He    comes — he    comes — the    Frost    Spirit    comes! — from    the    frozen 

Labrador — 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,    which    the   white  bear 

winders  o'er — 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the   luckless  forms 

below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble  statues  grow ! 

He  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes ! — On  the  rushing  Northern 

blast, 
And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fearful  breath  went 

past. 
With  an  unscorched  wing  he  was  hurried  on,  where  the  fires  of  Hecla 

glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes ! — and  the  quiet  lake  shall 

feel 

The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath  and  ring  to  the  skater's  heel; 
And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or  sang  to  the 

leaning  grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes — he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes ! — let  us  meet  him  as  we 

may, 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power  away ; 
And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  firelight  dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his  sounding  wing 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.  163 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER 

["The  manner  in  which  the  WALDENSES  and  heretics  disseminated  their  principles  among 
the  CATHOLIC  gentry,  was  by  carrying  with  them  a  box  of  trinkets,  or  articles  of  dress.  Having 
entered  the  houses  of  the  gentry,  and  disposed  of  some  of  their  goods,  they  cautiously  intimated 
that  they  had  commodities  far  more  valuable  than  these — inestimable  jewels,  which  they  would 
show  if  they  could  be  protected  from  the  clergy.  They  would  then  give  their  purchasers  a 
bible  or  testament  ;  and  thereby  many  were  deluded  into  heresy  "— /?.  Saccho.\ 

"  OH,  lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and  rare — 

The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which  beauty's  queen  might  wear; 

And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck,  with  whose  radiant  light 

they  vie; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way, — will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  through  the  dark  and  cluster 
ing  curls, 

Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his  silks  and  glittering  pearls; 

And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and  lightly  turned 
away, 

But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call — "  My  gentle  lady,  stay  I  " 

"  Oh,  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on  the  lofty  brow  of  kings — ' 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  blessing  on  thy  way ! " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her  form  of  grace  was 

seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks  waved  their  clasping 

pearls  between  ;— 

"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou  traveller  gray  and  old — 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my  page  shall  count  thy 

gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  folding  robe  he  took! 
"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it  prove  as  such  to  thee! 
Nay — keep  thy  gold — I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of  God  is  free!" 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high-born  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beautiful  hour  of  youth! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the  maidens  of  her  bower; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God  I 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Midian's  shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words — 

> 
Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given ! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  "  better  part," 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought: 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling,  heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

Oh,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human  kind ; 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

If  brooding  over  human  grief, 
The  earnest  wish  is  known 

To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 
An  anguish  not  thine  own: 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign,  or  show : 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love ! 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here  ? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year  ? 

"JNay,  none  of  these!  " 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night: 

"To  do  His  will!" 

What  hast  thou  done,  oh  soul  of  mine 

That  thou  tremblest  so  V — 
Hast  thou  wrought  His  task,  and  kept  the  line 

He  bade  thee  go  ? 

What,  silent  all ! — art  sad  of  cheer  ? 

Art  fearful  now  ? 
When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near 

How  brave  wert  thou? 

Ah!  thou  tremblest! — well  I  see 

Thou'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ? — 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

Oh,  wretched  sprite! 
Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep  and  black 

Abysmal  night. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and  Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed  youth 

To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"  I  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  the  Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

To  life  and  light. 

"  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I ; 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

I  gave  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine !  ah,  soul  of  mine ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well : 
Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake  or  for  thine  ? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to  ! — for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one  1 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now  ? — what  shakes  thee  so  ? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell: 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 
High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell, 

Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before, 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 


MY  SOUL  AND  I.  167 

"  They  shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God !  they  kneel 

To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but  feel 

That  it  still  is  there. 

"  In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread  Before 

To  the  Known  and  Gone ; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 

Their  feet  glide  on. 

"  Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale  faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"  And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips  move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 

And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the  light 

To  reveal  their  lot ; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping  of  rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear ! 

"  Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day, 
I  am  moving  thither  : 

I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way- 
God  pity  me !— WHITHER  ?  " 

Ah  soul  of  mine  !  so  brave  and  wise 

In  the  life -storm  loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd ! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent ; 
For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 

Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain: 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 


168  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  f earest ; 
Round  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day, 
And  the  end  He  knoweth, 

And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 
The  spirit  goeth. 

Man  sees  no  future — a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him ; 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind: 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night  ?  why  shrink  from  Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 
There  is  nothing  in  Heaven  or  earth  beneath 

Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 

And  from  one  another ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother  1 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 

Are  woven  fast, 
Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 

Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar  ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

Oh,  restless  spirit !  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere  ? — 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

His  bliss  thy 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


169 


And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light 

All  are  in  God's  care  ; 
Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep  of  night, 

And  He  is  there  ! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never : 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now,  sustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  Him,  make  with  reverent  meekness 

His  own  thy  will, 

And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy  utter  weak 
ness 

Life's  task  fulfil  ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before  thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner  glory 

Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  Autumn's  dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is  done 

Why  queriest  thou  ? — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 
ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 


How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover  ? 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts    in    thy    young    heart 
strange, 

Lovely,  and  tender 


Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven: 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain  side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven ! 


170 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between' 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn,  — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column! 

Oh,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  caH 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt — 
New  voices  softly  chant — 

New  faces  greet  thee  ! — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 


And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming : 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him,  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 

Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven  1 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 
A  FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angwl  gently  comes: 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 

There's  rest  in  his  still  countenance ! 

He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 

Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 

He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience !  sent  to  calm 

Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm 


FOLLEN. 

To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will  ! 

Oh !  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers  "  Be  resigned: 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well  1 " 


FOLLEN. 
ON  READING  HIS  ESSAY  ON  THE  "  FUTURE  STATE.' 

FRIEND  of  my  soul  ! — as  with  moist  eye 
I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 

Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 
Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lips  which  knew  no  guile, 

Softening  the  blue  eye's  thoughtful  care 
With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 

Ah  me ! — at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea, 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
{The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earth, 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 
Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth ; 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 


172  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 
The  mind  whose  kingly  will  they  wrought  ? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  Godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN  ! — not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burden  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 
And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering  worn. 

Oh!  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  glooms 
Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall — 

Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o'er  all ! — 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 
And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain ; — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 

Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting  fears, 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears; 

'Tis  something  to  a  heart  like  mine         9 
To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet; 

To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 
Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 

Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh! — at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 
Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm  boughs  wet  with  rain 
The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 


FOLLEN. 

With  clover  bloom  and  yellow  grain 

And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream  between; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 

Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes ; 
If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven's  serener  skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 

The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 
With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 

And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may  twine; 

And  simple  draughts  from  childhood's  well 
Blend  with  the  angel  tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 

And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb, — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 

And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 
Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  on, 

And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
And  to  our  gaze  ere  long  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We  so  much  wish,  yet  dread  to  learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee, — 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee, — 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene, 

Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Death  can  move, 
While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean 

On  Him  whose  dearest  name  is  Love ! 


174:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers! — in  the  fight 

Ye're  waging  now,  ye  cannot 
For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 

Than  kingcraft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go — let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 

The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 
It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 

The  gates  of  Heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong; 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  hath  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love ;— your  battle  ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 

The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 
Nor  lie  from'  throne  or  altar  shakes 

Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 

And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  power : 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  *WR  hour ! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME.  175 

Oh,  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering  storm, 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm, — 

Press  bravely  onward ! — not  in  vain 

Your  generous  trust  in  human  kind ; 
The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 

Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on! — the  triumph  shall  be  won 

Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 
The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 

And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 

Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup ; 
And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 

Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on ! — and  we  who  may  not  share 

The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight, 
May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 

God's  blessing  on  the  right ! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time ! — 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through! 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 


176  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 
Which  called  away  from  all. 

Oh !  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer! 


THE    REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church  beneath  her  trembling  dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in : 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile; 

That  grand,  old,  time-worn,  turret  spare ;" 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "Forbear!" 

Gray -bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 

Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept,  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold : 
"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 
"The  fair,  the  old  ?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked :  aside  the  dust  cloud  rolled— 
The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too; 


THE  REFORMER.  177 

tJpspringing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'Twas  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared ; 

The  frown  which  awed  rne  passed  away, 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow; 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  schoolgirls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

Oh!  backward -looking  son  of  timel — 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 


178  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

As  idly  as,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sires  repine, 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child,  grown  gray, 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

Yet,  not  the  less  for  them  or  thou 

The  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats  I 

Take  heart ! — the  Waster  builds  again — 

A  charmed  life  old  goodness  hath ; 
The  tears  may  perish — but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night: 
Ho,  wake  and  watch ! — the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him! — through  his  dungeon  grate 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight, 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head — 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard; 

flow 
locks  of  snow. 


tsuouvftu   AJ.IO    gLctij  j    iac^tiJ 

And  o'er  his  bony  fingt 
His  long,  dishevelled  1( 


Ko  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 

And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill; 
And  o'e'r  his  half -clad  person  goes 

The  frequent  ague  thrill! 
Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 
A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 
Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip; 
O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  1 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT.  179 

Just  God !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him! 

What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done  ? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore  ? 
Not  so;  his  crime's  a  fouler  one; 

GOD  MADE  THE  OLD  MAN  POOR! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars  ; 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee —    . 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well  I 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout  "  Freedom!  "  till  your  lisping  ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout: 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty  and  fame ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty  1 " 

But  when  the  patriot  cannon  jars 

That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 
And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 

Rise  on  the  wind  and  fall — 
Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  ? 
Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  V 
Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 
What  is  your  carnival  to  h"«  » 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Down  with  the  LAW  that  binds  him  thus  ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code, 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 


LINES 

Written  on  Reading  Several  Pamphlets  Published  by  Clergymen  against  the  Abolition  of 
the  Gallows. 


THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 

Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,  and  made 
The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his  head ; 
And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And  drank,  with  blessings  in  His  Father's  name. 
The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 
Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore, 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest, — and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 
From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor, 
Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He  bore  ! 

ii. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  sellish  multitude, 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  Him  not, 

How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  understood  I 
Where  he  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 

At  His  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew  ; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few  ; 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  His  name  hath  been 
The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  His  name  have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war -banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign  ; 
Yea,  in  His  name  who  bade  the  erring  live, 
And  daily  taught  his  lesson — to  forgive  ! — 

Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murderous  steel ; 


LINES.  181 

And,  with  His  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips, 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burning  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel  ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's  limb 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs  swim 

The  image  of  their  Christ,  in  cruel  zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held  mockingly  to  him  ! 

in. 

The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert  sand 

And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew 
The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land — 

The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew — 
The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear — 
Goa's  dark  dungeons — Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 

Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 
Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of  hell  I 
The  midnight  of  Bartholomew — the  stake 

Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed  flame 
Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake — 
New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim, — 
Bear  witness,  O  Thou  wronged  and  merciful  One ! 
That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  Thy  name  been  done! 

IV. 

Thank  God !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 

When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 

An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE  is  CRIME  I 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed, — that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore- 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part. 

v. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency  ? — Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain  ? 


182  '.  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Ye  most  unhappy  men  ! — who,  turned  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye  brood 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  w.arm  blood, 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ? — Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past  ? — Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity  ? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's  oak; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim. 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  OUT  time  ? 

Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 
And  consecrators  of  Law's  darkest  clime, 

Urged  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman's  hand  ? 
Beware — lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encumbrance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven— a  pagan  brotherhood ! 


THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE. 

"  It  hath  beene  as  it  were  especially  rendered  unto  mee  and  made  plaine  and  legible  to  my 
understandynge  that  a  great  worshipp  is  going  on  among  the  thyngs  of  God." — Graft. 

THE  Ocean  looketh  up  to  Heaven, 

As't  were  a  living  thing, 
, .    The  homage  of  its  waves  is  given 
In  ceaseless  worshipping. 

They  kneel  upon  the  sloping  sand, 

As  bends  the  human  knee, 
A  beautiful  and  tireless  band, 

The  Priesthood  of  the  Sea! 

They  pour  the  glittering  treasures  out 

Which  in  the  deep  have  birth, 
And  chant  their  awful  hymns  about 

The  watching  hills  of  earth. 

The  green  earth  sends  its  incense  up 
From  every  mountain  shrine, 


LINES.  183 


From  every  flower  and  dewy  cup 
That  greeteth  the  sunshine. 

The  mists  are  lifted  from  the  rills 
Like  the  white  wing  of  prayer, 

They  lean  above  the  ancient  hills 
As  doing  homage  there. 

The  forest  tops  are  lowly  cast 

O'er  breezy  hill  and  glen, 
As  if  a  prayerful  spirit  pass'd 

On  Nature  as  on  men. 

The  clouds  weep  o'er  the  fallen  world 

E'en  as  repentant  love; 
Ere  to  the  blessed  breeze  unfurl'd 

They  fade  in  light  above. 

The  sky  is  as  a  temple's  arch, 

The  blue  and  wavy  air 
Is  glorious  with  the  spirit-march 

Of  messengers  of  prayer. 

The  gentle  moon — the  kindling  sun — 

The  many  stars  are  given, 
As  shrines  to  burn  earth's  incense  on — 

The  altar-fires  of  Heaven! 


LINES 

Written  in  the  Commonplace  Book  of  a  young  lady. 

"  WRITE,  write !  "  Dear  Cousin,  since  thy  words 
Like  that  my  ancient  namesake  heard 

On  Patmos,  may  not  be  denied, 
I  offer  for  thy  page  a  lay 
Breathing  of  Beauty  pass'd  away 
Of  Grace  and  Genius,  Love  and  Truth, 
All  which  can  add  a  charm  to  youth, 

To  virtue  and  to  Heaven  allied. 
Forgive  me  if  the  lay  be  such 

As  may  not  suit  thy  hours  of  gladness, 
Forgive  me,  if  it  breathe  too  much 

Of  mourning  and  of  sadness. 
It  may  be  well  that  tears,  at  whiles, 
Should  take  the  place  of  Folly's  smiles, 

When  'neath  some  Heaven-directed  blow, 
Like  those  of  Horeb's  rock,  they  flow, 
For  sorrows  are  in  mercy  given 
To  fit  the  chasteu'd  soul  for  Heaven: 


184:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Prompting,  with  woe  and  weariness, 

Our  yearning  for  that  better  sky, 
Which,  as  the  shadows  close  on  this, 

Grows  brighter  to  the  longing  eye. 
For  each  unwelcome  blow  may  break, 

Perchance,  some  chain  which  binds  us  here; 
And  clouds  around  the  heart  may  make 

The  vision  of  our  Faith  more  clear  ; 
As  through  the  shadowy  veil  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  Heaven, 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  fervid  sunshine  never  knew ! 

-"  The  parted  spirit, 


Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ?    Answereth  not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ?  " 

The  circle  is  broken — one  seat  is  forsaken, — 
One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship  is  shaken- 
One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer  shall  thrill 
With  the  spirit  of  gladness,  or  darken  with  ill. 

Weep ! — Lonely  and  lowly,  are  slumbering  now 
The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of  her  brow. 
Weep ! — Sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen  in  vain 
To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome  again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead  !     For  humanity's  claim 
From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever  the  same ; 
The  hope  of  that  World  whose  existence  is  bliss 
May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners  of  this. 

For,  oh !  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit  can  throw 
On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation  below, 
Than  the  pride  of  the  marble — the  pomp  of  the  dead — 
To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears  which  we  shed. 

Oh,  who  can  forget  the  rich  light  of  her  smile, 
Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feeling  the  while — 
The  eye's  deep  enchantment,  dark,  dream-like,  and  clear, 
In  the  glow  of  its  gladness— the  shade  of  its  tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while  over  the  whole 
Play'd  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the  sunshine  of  soul, — 
And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the  music  which  seems 
Murmur'd  low  in  our  ears  by  the  Angel  of  dreams ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories  hold 
Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  precious  than  gold — 
The  love  and  the  kindness, — the  pity  which  gave 
Fresh  hopes  to  the  living  and  wreaths  for  the  grave — 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's  claim, 
Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure  and  blame, 


THE  WATCHER.  185 

While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her  ear 

Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the  jesting  and  jeer. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could  sorrow  for  them 
Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure  gem ; 
And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring  reprove, 
And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  temper'd  by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting  in  heaven, 
As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight  is  given, 
As  a  glad  dream  of  slumber,  which  wakens  in  bliss, 
She  hath  pass'd  to  the  world  of  the  holy  from  this. 

She  hath  pass'd ! — but,  oh !  sweet  as  the  flowerets  that  bloom 
From  her  last  lonely  dwelling — the  dust  of  her  tomb — 
The  charm  of  her  virtues,  as  Heaven's  own  breath, 
Shall  rise  like  an  incense  from  darkness  and  death. 


THE  WATCHER. 

"And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread  it  for  her  upon  the  rock, 
from  the  beginning  of  harvest  until  water  dropped  upon  them  out  of  Heaven,  and  suffered 
neither  the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest  on  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night." — 
2  Sam.  xxi.  10. 

TALL  men  and  kingly-brow'd ! — they  led  them  forth 

Bound  for  the  sacrifice.     It  was  high  noon; 

And  ancient  Gibeah,  emptied  of  her  life, 

Rose  silently  before  the  harvest  sun. 

Her  dwellers  had  gone  out  before  the  walls, 

With  a  stern  purpose ;  and  her  maidens  lean'd 

Breathless  for  its  fulfilment,  from  the  hills, 

Uncheer'd  by  reaper's  song.     The  harvest  lay 

Stinted  and  sere  upon  their  parched  tops. 

The  streams  had  perish'd  in  their  goings  on; 

And  the  deep  fountains  fail'd.     The  fervent  sun, 

Unchasten'd  by  a  cloud,  for  months  had  shone 

A  lidless  eye  in  heaven ;  and  all  the  sky 

Glow'd  as  a  furnace,  and  the  prodigal  dew 

With  the  scorch'd  earth  held  no  companionship. 

A  curse  was  over  Israel.     Un judged  crime 

Had  wrought  it  in  the  elements.     Her  soil 

Was  unbless'd  as  the  heathen's ;  and  the  plagues 

Of  those  who  know  not  God,  and  bow  them  down 

To  a  strange  worship,  had  been  meted  her. 

The  sacrifice  was  finish'd.  Gibeon  roll'd 
Back  like  a  torrent  through  the  city  gates 
Her  gather'd  thousands ;  and  her  victims  lay 
Naked  beneath  the  brazen  arch  of  heaven, 
On  the  stain'd  Rock  of  Sacrifice.  The  sun 
Went  down  his  heated  pathway  with  a  slow 


186  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  weary  progress,  as  he  levied  to  gaze 

On  the  dark  horror  of  his  burning  noon — 

The  sacrifice  of  Innocence  for  Guilt, 

Whose  blood  had  sent  its  sleepless  murmur  up 

To  the  Avenger's  ear,  until  fierce  wrath 

Burn'd  over  earth  and  heaven,  and  Vengeance  held 

The  awful  mastery  of  the  elements. 

Who  stealeth  from  the  city,  in  the  garb 
Which  tokens  the  heart's  sorrow,  and  which  seems 
Around  her  wasted  form  to  shadow  forth 
The  visitation  of  dark  grief  within? 
Lo! — she  hath  pass'd  the  valley,  and  her  foot 
Is  on  the  Rock  of  Sacrifice — and  now 
She  stoopeth  over  the  unburied  dead. 
And  moves  her  lip,  but  speaks  not.    It  is  strange 
And  very  fearful!     The  descending  sun 
Is  pausing  like  a  fire-wing'd  Angel  on 
The  bare  hills  of  the  West,  and,  fierce  and  red, 
His  last  rays  fall  aslant  the  place  of  blood, 
Coloring  its  dark  stains  deeper.    Lo!  she  kneels 
To  cover,  with  a  trembling  hand,  the  cold 
And  ghastly  work  of  death — those  desecrate 
And  darken'd  temples  of  the  living  soul! 

Her  task  was  finish'd,  and  she  went  away 
A  little  distance,  and,  as  night  stole  on 
With  dim  starlight  and  shadow,  she  sat  down 
Upon  a  jutting  fragment  of  the  rock — 
A  solitary  watcher.     The  red  glow 
That  wrestled  with  the  darknecs,  and  sent  up 
Its  spear-like  lines  of  light  until  they  waned 
Into  the  dark  blue  zenith,  pass'd  away, 
And,  from  the  broad  and  shadow'd  West,  the  stars 
Shone  through  substantial  blackness.     Midnight  came; 
The  wind  was  groaning  on  the  hills  and  through 
The  naked  branches  of  their  perishing  trees, 
And  strange  sounds  blended  with  it.     The  gaunt  wolf, 
Scenting  the  place  of  slaughter,  with  his  long 
And   most  offensive  howl   did   ask  for  blood; 
And  the  hyena  sat  upon  the  cliff, 
His  red   eye  glowing  terribly;    and  low, 
But  frequent  and   most  fearfully,  his  growl 
Came  to  the  watcher's  ear.     Alone  she  sat, 
Unmoving  as  her  resting-place  of  rock. 
Fear  for  herself  she  felt  not — every  tie 
That  once  took  hold  on  life  with  aught  of  love 
Was  broken  utterly.    Her  eye  was  fix'd, 
Stony  and  motionless,  upon  the  pall 
Which  veil'd  her  princely  dead.    And  this  was  love 


THE  WATCHER.  187 

In  its  surpassing  power — yea,  love  as  strong 
As  that  which  binds  the  peopled  Universe, 
And  pure  as  angel-worship,  when  the  just 
And  beautiful  of  Heaven  are  bow'd  in  prayer! 

The  night  stole  into  morning,  and  the  sun, 
Red  and  unwelcome,  rose  without  a  cloud, 
And  there  was  Rizpah  still,  woe-worn  and  pale; 
And  yet  in  her  dark  eye  and  darker  hair, 
And  in  the  marble  and  uplifted  brow, 
And  the  much  wasted  figure,  might  be  seen 
A  wreck  of  perfect  beauty,  such  as  bow'd 
The  throned  one  of  Israel  at  her  feet, 
Low  as  the  trampled  Philistine  had  knelt 
Before  his  mailed  presence.    Not  a  tear 
Glisten'd  on  eye  or  cheek,  but  still  she  gazed 
On  the  dark  veil  of  sackcloth  with  a  strange 
And  fixed  earnestness.    The  sky  again 
Redden'd  with  heat,  and  the  unmoisten'd  earth 
Was  like  the  ashen  surface  of  the  hush'd 
But  perilous  volcano.    Rizpah  bore 
The  fever  of  the  noon-time,  with  a  stern 
And  awful  sense  of  duty  nerving  her, 
In  her  devotedness.     She  might  not  leave 
The  high  place  of  her  watching  for  the  shade 
Of  cluster'd  palm-trees;  and  the  lofty  rocks, 
Casting  their  grim  and  giant  shadows  down, 
Might  not  afford  her  shelter;  for  the  sweep 
Of  heavy  wings  went  over  her  like  clouds 
Crossing  the  sunshine,  and  most  evil  birds, 
Dark  and  obscene, — the  jaguars  of  the  air!  — 
From  all  the  hills  had  gather'd.    Far  and  shy 
The  sombre  raven  sat  upon  his  rock, 
And  his  vile  mate  did  mock  him.     The  vast  wing 
Of  the  great  eagle,  stooping  from  the  sun, 
Winnow'd  the  cliffs  above  her! 

Day  by  day, 

Beneath  the  scorching  of  the  unveil'd  sun, 
And  the  unweeping  solitude  of  night, 
Pale  Rizpah  kept  her  vigils;  and  her  prayer 
Went  up  at  morn  and  eventide,  that  Earth 
Might  know  the  gentle  visitings  of  rain 
And  be  accurs'd  no  more.     And  when  at  last 
God  thunder'd  in  the  heavens,  and  clouds  came  up 
From  their  long  slumber,  and  the  great  rain  fell, 
And  the  parch'd  earth  drank  deeply,  Rizpah  knew 
Her  prayers  were  answer'd,  and  she  knelt  again; 
In  earnest  gratitude;  and  when  the  storm 
Roll'd  off  before  the  sunshine,  kindly  hands 
Convey'd  away  her  wasted  charge,  and  gave 
The  sons  of  Saul  a  sepulchre  with  him. 


188  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  CITY  OF  REFUGE. 

JOSHUA,  CHAPTER  XX. 

"  AWAY  from  thy  people,  thou  shedder  of  blood — 
Away  to  the  refuge  appointed  of  God] 
Nay,  pause  not  to  look  for  thy  household  or  kin, 
For  Death  is  behind  thee,  thou  worker  of  sin. 

"Away! — look  not  back,  though  that  sorrowful  one, 
The  mother  who  bore  thee,  shall  wail  for  her  son, 
Nor  stay  when  thy  wife,  as  a  beautiful  blossom, 
Shall  clasp  thy  fair  child  to  her  desolate  bosom. 

"  Away,  with  thy  face  to  the  refuge  afar 

In  the  glow  of  the  sun — in  the  eye  of  the  star; 

Though  the  Simoom  breathe  o'er  thee,  oppressive  and  warm, 

Rest  not  by  the  fountain  nor  under  the  palm. 

"  Away!  for  the  kinsman  of  him  thou  hast  slain 
Has  breathed  on  thy  head  the  dark  curses  of  Cain; 
The  cry  of  his  vengeance  shall  follow  thy  path — 
The  tramp  of  his  footstep,  the  shout  of  his  wrath." 

And  the  slayer  sprang -up  as  the  warning  was  said, 
And  the  stones  of  the  altar  rang  out  to  his  tread; 
The  wail  of  his  household  was  lost  on  his  ear — 
He  spoke  not,  he  paused  not,  he  turn'd  not  to  hear. 

He  fled  to  the  desert — he  turn'd  him  not  back 
When  the  rush  of  the  sand-storm  grew  loud  in  his  track, 
Nor  paused  till  his  vision  fell,  grateful  and  glad, 
On  the  green  hills  of  Gilead — the  white  tents  of  Gad. 

Oh,  thus,  when  the  crimes  and  the  errors  of  Earth 
Have  driven  her  children  as  wanderers  forth, 
To  the  bow'd  and  the  broken  of  spirit  is  given 
The  hope  of  a  refuge — the  refuge  of  Heaven! 


THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE, 
i. 

FAB  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 
By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 
The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  189 

Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knee  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer. 


ii. 

He  woke.    At  once  on  heart  and  braim 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  foot-fall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in; 
To  see  within  his  prison  yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron-barred, 
The  gallows   shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him, — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air — 

A  blackness  in  His  morning  light — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for  Blood 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven! 


190 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


in. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chaia, 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  liKe  rain; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  hy  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord; 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 

IV. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow — 
The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there — 

The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 

In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 

Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair — 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 

Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone!  — 

And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 

From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer; 

As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 

A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame — 

Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies — 

Its  devil-worm  that  never  dies — 

The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 

Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall; 

While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 

Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood: 

Two  busy  fiends  attending  there; 

One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 

The  other,  with  impatient  grasp, 

Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling  clasp! 

v. 

The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done — 
The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said — 

An  hour  had  passed — the  noonday  sun 
Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead! 

And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 

Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 

Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 

Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 

Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  191 

Of  man's  extremes!  wretchedness: 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain, — 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs;  — 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark? 
No — from  the  wild  and  shrinKmg  dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  nature's  latest  hope; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime. 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 
And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 
From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord! 

VI. 

Oh,  Thou!  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glanc§ 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And  waking,  saw  with  ;oy  above, 


192  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

JL  brother's  face  of  tender est  love; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  cam«, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
•Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  Thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge,  were  sent 

Prom  Thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love!     What,  then,  is  he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  Thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears? 
Oh,  once  again  Thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  know  Thee  not; 
And  let  the  light  of  Thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice! 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's*  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  duhnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low  pale  fire  is  quivering  still, 
So  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 
And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 
Oh!   never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  DESPAIR!  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray — 

My  brother  man,  Beware! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR! 

*  Among  the  Tartars,  the  Caspian  is  known  as  Akdingis,  that  is,  White  Sea.  Baku,  on  its 
Persian  side,  is  remarkable  for  its  perpetual  fire,  scarcely  discoverable  under  the  pitchy  clouds 
of  smoke  from  the,  bitumen  which  fe.ed»  it.  ft  is  the  natural  fire-altar  of  the  oW  Persian  wor 
ship. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


OH,  Mother  Earth !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetf illness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,    save  to  smiles  of  grateful 
eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and 

eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,   through    his    tall    ancestral 

trees, 

Saw  Autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He    sleeps — still    looking    to    the 

West, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 
Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune ! — in  him 
self 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 
^  The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 
Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 
Of  hatred  scarcely  human ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond 

shower 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness; 
Clear      picturings      of     majestic 

thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 
A  classic  beauty  throwing, 


And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 
Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn   foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it 
down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless 
hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  for 
tune  strange, 

Racked    nerve,    and    brain    all 

burning, 
His  loving  faith  of  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest   words  of  proud  re 
buke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves-  yet  kept  the 
while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and.  Woman  1 


194 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 
His  Roanoke  valley  entered ; 

No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 
Across  his  threshold  ventured.* 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Laid  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more. 

His  brother  man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breafeh, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling 
hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh !  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver ! 
None    trampling    with    a    calmer 
scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew    her  faults,    yet  never 
stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the'  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 
The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spread 
ing. 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of 

Doom 
Along  her  future  treading. 


For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 
When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbrao 

ing, 

He  traced  with  dying  hand  "  RE 
MORSE  ! "  f 
And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry 
sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall   which 
hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling! 


And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy 

exiled  sons 
Their     household     gods     have 

broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee — wolves  for 

men, 

And  briars  for  corn-sheaves  giv 
ing! 

Oh !  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 
Were  now  one  hero  living  1 


DEMOCRACY. 

["  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them." — 
Matthew  vii.  12.] 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 

Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 
The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  light, 

Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 
Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown,- 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

*  Randolph  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  slave  traders,  and  it  is  said  treated  some  of  them  quite 
toughly,  who  ventured  to  cheapen  his  "  chattels  personal." 
t  See  the  remarkable  »tatement  of  Dr.  Parish,  his  medical  attendant. 


DEMOCRACY.  195 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 

Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine — 
The  pitying  heart — the  helping  arm— 

The  prompt  self-sacrifice — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  1 
How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 

The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him; 
As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 

The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 
In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord — 

Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 
The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set — 

The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart. 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 


196  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering : — 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 


TO  RONGE. 

* 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man !    Down  to  the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 

Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.     In  God's  name  then 

Put  nerve  into  thy  task.     Let  other  men 

Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree,  whose  fruit 

The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall  heal. 

Be  thou  the  image-breaker.     Let  thy  blows 

Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 

On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  interpose 

Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father-land. 

Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First  of  all, 

Shake  thou  all  German  dream-land  with  the  fall 

Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 

Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stalwart  monk. 

Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows.     Let  us  hear 

The  snap  of  chain -links.     Let  our  gladdened  ear 

Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as  the  light 

Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell  of  night. 

Be  faithful" to  both  worlds;  nor  think  to  feed 

Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks  of  creed. 

Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and  holy 

Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and  the  lowly, 

Thrust  not  His  Eden  promise  from  our  sphere, 

Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's  span ; 

Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and  here, — 

The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to  man ! 

Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.     Nor  like  him, 

When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his  limb 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 

His  hands,  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the  freedom  of  the  mind) 


CHALKLEY  HALL.  197 

CHALKLEY  HALL.* 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of  this  breeze 

To  him  who  flies 

From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's  weary  gleam, 
Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 

The  close  dark  city  lies ! — 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while  men  throng 

The  marble  floor 

Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and  din 
Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 

My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

Oh !  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  dies  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain ! — 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and  sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken  ; 

Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and  ill, 
Oh,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 

Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my  mood: 

Beneath  the  arms 

Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the  shade 

Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless  years, 

The  virgin  soil 

Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and  grain 

Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 

He  came  to  meet  his  children,  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 

And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 

Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying  gales, 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's  vales, 

And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

*  Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa.,  the  residence  of  THOMAS  CHALKLHY,  an  eminent 
•sinister  of  the  "  Friends  "  denomination.  He  was  one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Colony,  and 
his  Journal,  which  was  published  in  1749,  presents  a  quaint  but  beautiful  picture  of  a  life 
of  unostentatious  and  simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master  of  a  merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his 
visits  to  the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted  no  opportunity  to  labor  for  the  highest 
interests  of  his  fellow-men.  During  a  temporary  residence  in  Philadelphia,  in  the  summer  of 
1838,  the  quiet  and  beautiful  scenery  around  the  ancient  village  of  Frankford  frequently  at 
tracted  me  from  the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  city. 


198  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren  soil, 
Raised  up  in  life  and  power: 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian  vales, 

A  tendering  love 

Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were  given, 

And  strength  as  from  above : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

Until  his  chain 

Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit  felt 
The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 

Upon  its  lifelong  pain : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sate  him  down  to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 

And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole  dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty  came, 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

Oh,  far  away  beneath  New  England's  sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 

Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's  green  shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory  warm — 

Its  woods  around, 

Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and  shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland  glade — 

To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius  keeps 

His  vigils  still ; 

Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is  laid, 
Or  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's  shade, 

Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange  grove, 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and  Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given ; 

And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream  have  shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven ! 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON.  199 


TO  JOHN  PIERPONT. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 

With  which  my  childhood  heard  that  lay  of  thine, 

Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy  Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  airs  of  Palestine, — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  offering: 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt  see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed  with  me 
Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too  short 
For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy's  graceful  sport; 

And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with  wrong, 
Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 

The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy  song 
Hath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in  every  thought! 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

[Ibn  Batuta,  the  celebrated  Mussulmun  traveler  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a  Cy 
press  tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held  sacred  by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to 
fall  only  at  certain  intervals,  and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and  eat  one  of  them,  was  re 
stored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several  venerable  JOGEES,  or  saints,  sit 
ting  silent  and  motionless  under  the  tree,  patiently  awaiting  the  falling  of  a  leaf.] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 

The  sacred  cypress  tree  about, 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows 

Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 
The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call — the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids — the  passing  gleam. 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance? 


200  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf, 
Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing: 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh! — if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree, 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer 
Upon  the  waiting  head : 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine,, 

But,  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine : 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay  ? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  His  appointed  way  ? 

Or,  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 
Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 
Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong : 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to,  smite  with  Peter's  sword, 
Than  "  watch,  one  hour  "  in  humbling  prayer: 

life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  Ipr4 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save : 
And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

Oh,  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hoirr 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain  ^ 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER.  20l 

TBend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 
Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 

Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  1 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow -plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  breaks 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  oh  mother  Nature  !  "  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free ; 
"Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thee  !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall  j 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  His  works, 

Has  left  His  Hope  with  all] 


202 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


TO  — , 
WITH  A  COPY  of  WOOLMANS  JOURNAL.* 


MAIDEN!   with     the    fair    brown 

tresses 

Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 
Floating   on  thy  thoughtful    fore 
head 

Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy    with    them     should     still 
abide— 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty — 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  a  power  like  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies ; 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  self-same  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 
Through  the  forms  of  outward 
things, 

Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 
And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty 
noises 

Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 
And  the  low  mysterious  voices 

Of  another  clime. 


All  the  mystery  of  Being 
Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge 

wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest ; 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe? 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From    the    doubt    and    darkness 
springing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of 
youth 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching  : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH  ? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 
Whence  the    ancient  life  hath 
fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  mean 
ings 

Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn, — 
Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 

Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and   soft  as  woven  moon 
beams, 
Beautiful  and  frail ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 


*  "  Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart."— Essays  of  Elia, 


TO 


203 


Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves 

tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 
Hath  no  outward  origin; 

More  than  Nature's  many  voices 
May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 
Questioned  earth    and  sea  and 
sky,* 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 
More     than     outward     Nature 
taught — 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  beings  end, — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet ! 

*  August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi. 


And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermoifs  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages- 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught: — 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  bright 
ness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 
Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 

But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 
Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right  hand  of  slaugh 
ter 

Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 
When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 

Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall 

gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering 

one — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and 
ponder 

What  its  pages  say  to  thee — 
Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 

May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food  ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look! — 
"  Interrogavi  Terram,"  etc. 


204:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,— 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 


Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek; 

And   his   gift,     though   poor  and 
lowly 

It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 
Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 

In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 

"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets."— Holy  Writ. 

YES — pile  the  marble  o'er  him !     It  is  well 

That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long  stern  strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from  hell, 

Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow -men, 
Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and  sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 
In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 

The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind, — 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders'  shame! 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  YISTA. 

[A  LETTER-WRITER  from  Mexico  states  that,  at  the  terrible  fight  of  Buena  Vista,  MEXICAN 
women  were  seen  hovering  near  the  field  of  death,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  aid  and  succor  to 
the  wounded.  One  poor  woman  was  found  surrounded  by  the  maimed  and  suffering  of  both 
armies,  ministering  to  the  wants  of  AMERICANS  as  well  as  MEXICANS,  with  impartial  tender 
ness.] 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they  far  or  come  they  near  ? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying ;  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls !  " 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ? — "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother!  keep  our  brothers!     Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more: 
"  Still  I  Bee  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain 
course." 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA.  205 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "Ah!  the  smoke  has  rolled  away  ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !  That  sudden  blast  of  bugles!  there  the  troop  of  Minon  wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat  and  now  advance  ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ;  horse  and  foot  together  fall  ; 
Like  a  plowshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  plow  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on : 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and  who  has  won  ? 
"  Alas!  alas!  I  know  not  ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all !  " 

"  Lo!  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting:  Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise  ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes  ! " 

"  Oh  my  heart's  love !  oh  my  dear  one !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my  knee ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?  Canst  thou  hear  me  ?  canst  thou 

see? 

Oh,  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !  oh,  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  mercy !  mercy  !  all  is  o'er  !  " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol  belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of 

pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly  smiled : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "Mother!  "  murmured  he,  and  died! 

•'A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  the  North !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 


206  WHITTIER'S  POEMS.  %    i 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!  "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  behind, 
Ah!  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  oh,  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive !  " 

Sink,  oh  Night,  among  thy  Mountains !  let  the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall  ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,   worn  and  faint  and  lacking 

food; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  oh  Father !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air! 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with  foul  wrong; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow -men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled  among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  burial  place ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human  iove  and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level — and  how,  soon  or  late, 

Wronged  and  wrong-doer,  each  with  meekened  face, 
And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still  heart, 

Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common  grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence  none  depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 

Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty  wave, 

Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling  I  forgave ! 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


207 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 

[Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines  of  FRIENDS,  in  Scotland,  was  BARCLAY  of 
URY,  au  old  and  distinguished  soldier,  who  had  fought  under  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS,  in  Ger 
many.  As  a  Quaker,  he  became  the  object  of  persecution  and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  the  magis 
trates  and  the  populace.  None  bore  the  indignities  of  the  mob  with  greater  patience  and  noble 
ness  of  soul  than  this  once  proud  gentleman  and  soldier.  One  of  his  friends,  on  an  occasion  of 
uncommon  rudeness,  lamented  that  he  should  be  treated  so  harshly  in  his  old  age,  who  had 
been  so  honored  before.  "  I  find  more  satisfaction,"  said  BARCLAY,  "  as  well  as  honor,  in 
being  thus  insulted  for  my  religious  principles,  than  when,  a  few  years  ago,  it  was  usual  for  the 
magistrates,  as  I  passed  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to  meet  me  on  the  road  and  conduct  me  to  public 
entertainment  in  their  hall,  and  then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my  favor."] 


UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving  girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding ; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop    with    broadsword 

swinging, 

Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 
Loose  and  free  and  froward ; 
Quoth  the   foremost,   "  Ride   him 

down! 
Push  him !  prick  him !  through  the 

town 
Drive  the  Quaker  coward  !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud : 

"  Barclay !     Ho !  a  Barclay !  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side, 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 
Cried  aloud ;  "  God  save  us  ? 


Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 
"With  the  brave  Gustavus?" 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord  ; 

"  Put  it  up  I  pray  thee: 
Passive  to  His  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master's  still, 

Even  though  He  slay  me." 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled   much    that    henchman 

bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe's  the  day,"  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity ; 
"Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city ! 

"Speak    the    word,    and,    master 

mine, 

As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 
And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we'll 

teach 

Civil  look  and  decent  speech 
To  these  boyish  prancers !  " 

"Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end : " 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 


208 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


"  Give  me  joy  that  in  His  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were 

seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads,  to  meet  me. 

"When  each  good  wife,  o'er  and 

o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through    her  casement   glancing 

down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving: 
But  the  Lord  His  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through  this  dark  and  stormy 

night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  ! " 


So  the  Laird  of  tfry  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Toward  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,    though    iron    grates,    he 

heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 
Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter; 
And,  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  dis 
cern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow ; 
Clothe  the   waste  with  dreams  of 

grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  1 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 

"  Lord !  "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 
"  From  thy  right  hand,  clothed  with  thunder, 

Shake  the  bolted  fire ! 


"  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying; 
With  the  brute  the  man  is  Bold : 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 
Hardens  into  gold. 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID.  209 

"*  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 

There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain; 
And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 

Reaping  men  like  grain. 

"  '  Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear  Him?' 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say ; 
'  God !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us ! ' 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray. 

"Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraiding," 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within ; 
"  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin  ? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 

Canst  thou  for  his  thunders  call, 
Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 

Ever  more  they  fall  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 

In  thy  heart  await  their  time  ? 
Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 

Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"  Could'st  thou  boast,  oh  child  of  weakness! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life  ? 

"Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gushing 

From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 
But  by  widely  varying  channels 

Searching  for  the  sea. 

"  Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 

Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet; 
One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 

Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 

Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire  ? 
In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 

Choose  his  wandering  sire  ? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 

Human  power  and  human  will, 
Looking  through  each  soul's  surrounding, 

Knows  its  good  or  ill. 

"  For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 

Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 
Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 

What  the  heart  must  feel. 


210  WHITTIEE'S  POEMS. 

"  Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

•  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 

Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 
Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

"  Not  the  less  shall  stern -eyed  Duty 
To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 

But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Wailings  of  regret. " 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 

Whispering  through  the  day's  cool  silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear ! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


TO  DELAWARE. 

Written  during  the  Discussion,  in  the  Legislature  of  that  State  in  the  Winter  of  1846-47,  oi  a 
Bill  for  the  Abolition  of  Slavery. 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 

To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged  home, 
With  spray-wet  locks  to  Northern  winds  released, 

And  hardy  feet  o'er-swept  by  ocean's  foam ; 
And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden  West, 

Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with  prairie  bloom, 
Trail  in  the  sunset, —  oh,  redeemed  and  blest, 

To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters  come ! 
Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail-white  bay 

Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from  her  plains, 
And  the  great  lakes,  where  echoes  free  alway 

Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the  clank  of  chains, 
Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  tossing  spray, 
And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holiday. 
And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  mountain  rains,- 

Vermont  shall  bless  thee ;  and  the  Granite  peaks, 
And  vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods,  shall  wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold  keen  air; 

And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged  cheeks 
O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn  to  thee, 

When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 

Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words  of  fire: 
Glory  and  praise  to  God !  another  state  is  free  1 


WORSHIP.  211 


WORSHIP. 

["  Pure  religion  and  undefined  before  God  and  the  Father  is  this,  To  visit  the  fatherless  and 
widows  in  their  affliction,  and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  -world.."— James  i.  27.] 

THE  Pagan's  myths  through  marble  lips  are  spoken, 
And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and  moan 

Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and  broken, 
O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring  of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old  high  places, 
The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid's  wood, 

With  mothers'  offering,  to  the  Fiend's  embraces, 
Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of  their  own  blood. 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night  of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the  cruel  eye 

Of  lawless  Power  and  sanguinary  Terror, 
Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless  sky; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  overcasting 
All  heaven  above,  and  blighting  earth  below, 

The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew  pale  with  fasting, 
And  man's  eolation  was  his  fear  and  woe! 

Then  through  great  temples  swelled  the  dismal  moaning 

Of  dirge-like  music  and  sepulchral  prayer; 
Pale  wizard  priests,  o'er  occult  symbols  droning, 

Swung  their  white  censers  in  the  burdened  air: 

As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the  savor 
Of  gums  and  spices,  could  the  Unseen  One  please; 

As  if  His  ear  could  bend,  with  childish  favor, 
To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys! 

Feet  red  from  war  fields  trod  the  church  aisles  holy, 
With  trembling  reverence;  and  the  oppressor  there, 

Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and  lowly, 

Crushed  human  hearts  beneath  his  knee  of  prayer. 

Not  such  the  service  the  benignant  Father 

Requireth  at  his  earthly  children's  hands: 
Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but  rather 

The  simple  duty  man  from  man  demands. 

For  Earth  he  asks  it:  the  full  joy  of  Heaven 

Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or  increase; 
The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats  even, 

Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  his  peace, 


212  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  surrounding 
The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly  grave, 

No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music  sounding, 
Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twilight  nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly  spoken: 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns  to  bless 

Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit  broken, 
And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless! 

Types  of  our  human  weakness  and  our  sorrow! 

Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved  ones  dead? 
Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not  to  borrow 

From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights  which  have  fled? 

Oh,  brother  man!  fold  to  thy  heart  thy  brother; 

Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God  is  there; 
To  worship  rightly  is  to  love  each  other, 

Each  smile  a  hymn,  each  kindly  deed  a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great  example 
of  him  whose  holy  work  was  "  doing  good  "; 

So  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Father's  temple, 
Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  gratitude. 

Then  shall  all  shackles  fall;   the  stormy  clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth  shall  cease; 

Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of  anger, 
And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of  peace! 


THE   ALBUM. 

THE  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  Sun, 
At  morn  and  evening  hours, 

O'er-hung  their  graceful  shrines  alone 
With  wreaths  of  dewy  riowers. 

Not  vainly  did  those  fair  ones  cull 
Their  gifts  by  stream  and  wood; 

The  Good  is  always  beautiful, 
The  Beautiful  is  good: 

We  live  not  in  their  simple  day, 
Our  Northern  blood  is  cold, 

And  few  the  offerings  which  we  lay 
On  other  shrines  than  Gold. 

With  Scripture  texts  to  chill  and  ban 
The  heart's  fresh  morning  hours, 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY.  213 

The  heavy-footed  Puritan 

Goes  trampling  down  the  flowers; 

Nor  thinks  of  Him  who  sat  of  old 

Where  Syrian  lilies  grew, 
And  from  their  mingling  shade  and  gold 

A  holy  lesson  drew. 

Yet  lady,  shall  this  book  of  thine, 

Where  Love  his  gifts  has  brought, 
Become  to  thee  a  Persian  shrine, 

O'er-hung  with  flowers  ot  thought. 


THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 

And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused  broom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 

But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the  corn, 

And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 

And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn-loft  cheer. 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered  limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sinbad  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 

To  my  quiet  goom  and  fireside  nook, 
Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  gray 

On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 
Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 
Are  chronicled  well  by  good  king  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 

No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 

Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell: 
And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 


214:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red  nose, 

And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows. 

Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 

Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  "  how  d'ye  do," 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow  chair; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat, 

And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 
In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 

With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and  look 
Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone; 

And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 

That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 
The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 

The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  the  jeu  cT  esprit, 

All  reach  my  ear  in  the  self-same  tone, — 

I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on! 

Oh!   sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlit  sea, 

Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance  which  seems 

To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's  dreams. 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 
And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  self-same  boo* — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe, — 

Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon-bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY.          215 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 
And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 
And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear!  — 

Oh,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door; 
And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 

Which  melted  in  music  the  night  before, 
From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 
And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 

I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 
I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 

And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out; 
I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 
And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain! 

I've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 

And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 
Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 

Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to  meet, 
But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 
Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and  Tate, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 
I've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 

And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 
Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day! 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 

Abire  ad  tuum  locum!" — still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum! 

Ah! — commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 

With  her  sevenfold  plagues — to  the  wandering  Jew, 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 

The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can, 
That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man! 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  PUMPKIN. 

OH!  greenly  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the  sun, 
The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich  melon  run, 
And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cottage  enfold, 
With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and  blossoms  all  gold, 
Like  that  which  o'er  Nineveh's  prophet  once  grew, 
While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warning  was  true, 
And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and  listened  in  vain, 
For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and   red  fire-rain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark  Spanish  maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine  laden; 
And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to  behold 
Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres  of  gold; 
Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home  in  the  North, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee  looks  forth, 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow  fruit  shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his  vines. 

Ah! — on  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  from  East  and  from  West, 
From  North  and  from   South   come  the  pilgrim  and  guest, 
When  the  gray-haired  New  Englander  sees  round  his  board 
The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 
When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mother  once  more, 
And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled  before, 
What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  brightens  the  eye? 
What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich  Pumpkin  pie? 

Oh! — fruit  loved  of  boyhood! — the  old  days  recalling, 

When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts  were  falling! 

When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 

Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  within! 

When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  hearts  all  in  tune, 

Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin — our  lantern  the  moon, 

Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like  steam, 

In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her  team! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present!— none  sweeter  or  better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking  than  thine! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to  express, 
Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less: 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin-vine  grow, 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  Pumpkin  Pie  I 


EXTRACT  FROM  "  A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND."    217 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND." 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning! 
Its  rites  fordone — its  guardians  dead — 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning!  — 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men; 
No  more  the  unquiet  church-yard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil; 
No  pale,  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered  sashes! — 
The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broom-sticK  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daughters; 
No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard — 
The  mew  of  cat — the  chirp  of  bird, 
Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughter 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after! 


The  cautious  good-man  nails  no  more 

A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 

Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 

To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit — 

The  good-wife's  churn  no  more  refuses 

Its  wonted  culinary  uses 

Until,  with  heated  needle  burned. 

The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned! 

Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 

And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 

But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  creatures, 

the  heart's  sunshine,  on.  their  feature^— « 


218  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Their  sorcery — the  light  which  dances 
Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances; 
Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore, 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore. 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid  her. 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invader: 
So  perished  Albion's  "  glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "  catechise," 
Or  "  Webster's  Spelling  Book." 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles  around. 

On — on — we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way; 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming  grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends,  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust  spray. 


HAMPTON  BEACH.  219 

Ha!  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life — the  healing  of  the  seas! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care!     I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day; 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath — I  seem 

Like  all  I  see- 
Waves  in  the  sun — the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  South  wind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 

No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness  grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream, 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 
May  have  its  dawning; 
And,  as  in  Summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul's  new  morning. 

I  sit  alone:  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Beneath  like  fallen  Titans  lay, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy  cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts  down! 


220  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind, 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer! — wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where  my  native  hilltops  o'er 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset  sky! 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the  Sea. 


LINES 

Written  on  Hearing  of  the  Death  of  Silas  Wright,  of  New  York. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a  beacon  shone, 
Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the  heaven  alone, 

So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 

In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen  thy  light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.     At  thy  hour  of  noon, 

While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed  sight, 

And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 

A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 

As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not  in  vain, 

Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry  of  pain, 
Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too  soon! 

Portents  at  which  the  bravest  stand  aghast — 

The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange  and  vast, 
Alarm  the  land;  yet  thou,  so  wise  and  strong, 

Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever  long, 

Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 

Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scattering  host? 

Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost? 

Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery?    He,  whose  voice 
Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field,  shall  not  lack 
Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely  back 

The  wrong  which,  through  His  poor  ones,  reaches  Him: 

Yet  firmer  hands  shall  Freedom's  torch-lights  trim, 
And  wave  them  high  across  the  abysmal  black, 

Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall  see  them  and  rejoice. 


LINES.  221 

LINES 

ACCOMPANYING  MANUSCRIPTS  PRESENTED  TO  A  FRIEND. 

'Tis  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 

The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 
The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 

Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 

Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight  sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings; 

Still  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 

The  way-worn  wanderer  looks  to  see 
The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk  tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 

Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 
So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 

Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 

May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake, 
Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 

The  thought  of  it  shall  wake; 

The  graceful  palm  tree  by  the  well, 

Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim; 
The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 

Bent  timidly  on  him; 

Each  pictured  saint,  whose  golden  hair 

Streams  sunlike  through  the  convent's  gloom; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls. 

From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 
Along  my  pilgrim  path  recalls 

The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one,  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 

In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 
Whatever  by  that  holy  name 

The  angels  comprehend. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 

Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 
Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 

The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay — 

Poor  common  thoughts  on  common  things, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 

To  nurturing  eare  but  little  known, 
Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee, 

Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kiirdly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 

There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play. 

And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird  sings, 
And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 

Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 
Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade, 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Ere  long  shall  miss  its  shade. 

Oh,  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 
Keeps  bright  the  last  year's  leaves  and  flowers, 

With  warm,  glad  summer  thoughts  to  fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours! 

Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the  leaves  I  bring 

May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 
Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring. 

Life's  fairer  ones  unfold. 


THE    REWARD. 

WHO,  looking  backward  from  his  manhood's  prime, 
Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time? 

And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 
Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the  wind 

From  his  loved  deaa? 


I 


RAPHAEL.  223 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil  force? 
Who  shuns  thy  sting,  oh  terrible  Remorse?— 

Who  does  not  cast 

On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  memory's  book, 
At  times,  a  sad  and  half  reluctant  look, 

Regretful  of  the  Past? 


!  —  the  evil  which  we  fain  would  shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good  undone: 

Our   strength  to-day 

Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone  to  fall; 
Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 

Are  we  alway. 

Yet,  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er  his  years, 
Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grateful  tears, 

If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling  cause, 

His   fellow-men? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin,  — 

If  he  hath  lent 

Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of  need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 

Or  home,  hath  bent, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he  gives 
The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves  and  lives, 

With  thankful  heart; 

He  gazes  backward,  and  with  hope  before, 
Knowing  that  from  his  works  he  never  more 

Can  henceforth  part. 


RAPHAEL.* 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight: 
The  glow  of  Autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 

The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy; 
Yet  while  I  gazed  a  sense  of  awe 

Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

*  Suggested  by  a  portrait  of  Raphael,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  in  the  possession  of  Thomas Tracy, 
Of  Newburyport, 


224  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

A  simple  print: — the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine; 

It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanished, — space 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is   wide   as   human    thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 
Oh  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild! 

Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 
Thy  Saviour  and  Thy  Child! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day, 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
$e,  borrowed  from  her  own. 


LINES.  225 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 

But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught; 
The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 

Still  rested  on  my  thought: 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 

Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made 
And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 

With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 
And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 

We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 
And  painted  on  the  eternal  wall 

The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 

On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died? 
Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 

Has  vanished  from  his  side? 

Oh  no! — We  live  our  life  again: 

Or  warmly  touched  or  coldly  dim 
The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain, — 

Man's  works  shall  follow  him! 


LINES 

Written  on  visiting  a  singular  cave  hi  Chester,  N.  H.,  known  in  the  vicinity  by  the  name  ot 
«  ThtDeviVsDenr 

THE  moon  is  bright  on  the  rocky  hill, 

But  its  dwarfish  pines  rise  gloomily  still, — 

Fix'd,  motionless  forms  in  the  silent  air, 

The  moonlight  is  ou  them,  but  darkness  is  there. 

The  drowsy  flap  of  the  owlet's  wing, 

And  the  stream's  low  gush  from  its  hidden  spring, 

And  the  passing  breeze,  in  its  flight-betray'd 

By  the  timid  shiver  of  leaf  and  blade ; 

Half  like  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan, 

The  ear  of  the  listener  catches  alone,. 


226  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

A  dim  cave  yawns  in  the  rude  hillside, 
Like  the  jaws  of  a  monster  open'd  wide, 
Where  a  few  wild  bushes  of  thorn  and  fern 
Their  leaves  from  the  breath  of  the  night-air  turn; 
And  half  with  twining  foliage  cover 
The  mouth  of  that  shadowy  cavern  over: 
Above  it,  the  rock  rests  gloomy  and  high 
Its  rugged  outline  against  the  sky, 
Which  seems  as,  it  opens  on  either  hand, 
Like  some  bright  sea  leaving  a  desolate  land. 

Below  it,  a  stream  on  its  bed  of  stone 

From  a  rift  in  the  rock  comes  hurrying  down. 

Telling  forever  the  same  wild  tale 

Of  its  loftier  home  to  the  lowly  vale; 

And  over  its  waters  an  oak  is  bending, 

Its  boughs  like  a  skeleton's  arms  extending — 

A  naked  tree,  by  the  lightning  shorn. 

With  its  trunk  all  bare'and  its  branches  torn; 

And  the  rocks  beneath  it,  blacken'd  and  rent, 

Tell  where  the  bolt  of  the  thunder  went. 

'Tis  said  that  this  cave  is  an  evil  place — 

The  chosen  haunt  of  the  fallen  race ; 

That  the  midnight  traveller  oft  hath  seen 

A  red  flame  tremble  its  jaws  between, 

And  lighten  and  quiver  the  boughs  among, 

Like  the  fiery  play  of  a  serpent's  tongue; 

That  sounds' of  fear  from  its  chambers  swell — 

The  ghostly  gibber,  the  fiendish  yell ; 

That  bodiless  hands  at  its  entrance  wave, — 

And  hence  they  have  named  it  THE  DEMON'S  CAVE! 

The  fears  of  man  to  this  place  have  lent 

A  terror  which  Nature  never  meant ; 

For  who  hath  wander'd,  with  curious  eye, 

This  dim  and  shadowy  cavern  by, 

And  known,  in  the  sun  or  starlight,  aught 

Which  might  not  beseem  so  lonely  a  spot, — 

The  stealthy  fox,  and  the  shy  raccoon, 

The  night-bird's  wing  in  the  shining  moon, 

The  frog's  low  croak,  and,  upon  the  hill, 

The  steady  chant  of  the  whippoorwill  ? 

Yet  is  there  something  to  fancy  dear 

In  this  silent  cave  and  its  lingering  fear, — 

Something  which  tells  of  another  age, 

Of  the  wizard's  wand,  and  the  Sybil's  page, 

Of  the  fairy  ring  and  the  haunted  glen, 

And  the  restless  phantoms  of  murder'd  men, 

The  grandame's  tale  and  the  nurse's  song, 

The  dreams  of  childhood  remember'd  long; 

And  I  love  even  now  to  list  the  tale 

Of  the  Demon's  Cave,  and  its  haunted  vale.. 


SUICIDE  POND.  227 


SUICIDE  POND. 

Tis  a  dark  and  dismal  little  pool,  and  fed  by  tiny  rills, 
And  bosom'd  in  waveless  quietude  between  two  barren  hills; 
There  is  no  tree  on  its  rugged  marge,  save  a  willow  old  and  lone, 
Like  a  solitary  mourner  for  its  sylvan  sisters  gone. 

F   The  plough  of  the  farmer  turneth  not  the  sward  of  its  gloomy  shore, 
Which  bears  even  now  the  same  gray  moss  which  in  other  times  it  bore; 
And  seldom  or  never  the  tread  of  man  is  heard  in  that  lonely  spot, 
For  with  all  the  dwellers  around  that  pool  its  story  is  unforgot. 

And  why  does  the  traveller  turn  aside  from  that  dark  and  silent  pool. 
Though  the  sun  be  burning  above  his  head,  and  the   willow's  shade  be 

cool  ? 

Or  glance  with  fear  to  its  shadowy  brink,  when  night  rests  darkly  there, 
And  down,    through  its  sullen  and  evil  depths,  the  stars  of  the  mid 
night  glare  ? 

Merrily  whistles  the  cowboy  on — but  he  hushes  his  music  when 

He  hurries  his  cows,  with  a  sidelong  glance,  from  that  cold  forsaken 

glen ! 
Laughing  and  mirthful  the  young  girl  comes,  with  her  gamesome  mates, 

from  school, 
But  her  laugh  is  lost  and  her  lip  is  white  as  she  passes  the  haunted  pool! 

'Tis  said  that  a  young,  a  beautiful  girl,  with  a  brow  and  with  an  eye, — 
One  like  a  cloud  in  the  moonlight  robed,  and  one  like  a  star  on  high! — 
One  who  was  loved  by  the  villagers  all,  and  whose  smile  was  a  gift  to 

them, 
Was  found  one  morn  in  that  pool  as  cold  as  the  water-lily's  stem ! 

I    Ay,  cold  as  the  rank  and  wasting  weeds,  which  lie  in  the  pool's  dark 

bed, 

The  villagers  found  that  beautiful  one,  in  the  slumber  of  the  dead. 
She  had  strangely  whisper'd  her  dark  design  in  a  young  companion's 

ear, 
But  so   wild  and  vague  that  the  listener  smiled  and  knew  not  what  to 

fear. 

;    And  she  went  to  die  in  that  loathsome  pool  when  the  summer  day  was 

done, 

With  her  dark  hair  cuiTd  on  her  pure  \vhite  brow,  and  her  fairest  gar 
ments  on ; 

With  the  ring  on  her  taper  linger  still,  and  her  necklace  of  ocean  pearl, 
;'   Twined  as  in  mockery  round  the  neck  of  that  suicidal  girl. 

And  why  she  perish'd  so  strangely  there  no  mortal  tongue  can  tell — 

She  told  her  story  to  none,  and  Death  retains  her  secret  well! 

And  the  willow,  whose  mossy  and  aged  boughs  o'er  the  silent  water 

lean, 
Like  a  sad  and  sorrowful  mourner  of  the  beautiful  dead,  is  seen  I 


228  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

But  oft,  our  village  maidens  say,  when  the  summer  evenings  fall, 
When  the  frog  is  calling  from  his  pool  to  the  cricket  in  the  wall ; 
When  the  night-hawk's  wing  dips  lightly  down  to  that  dull  and  sleeping 

lake, 
And  slow  through  its  green  and  stagnant  mass  the  shoreward    circles 

break — 

At  a  time  like  this,  a  misty  form — as  fog  beneatli  the  moon — 

Like  a  meteor  glides  to  the  startled  view,  and  vanishes  as  soon ; 

Yet  weareth  it  ever  a  human  shapte,  and  ever  a  human  cry 

Comes  faintly  and  low  on  the  still  night-air,  as  when  the  despairing  die. 


STANZAS 
SUGGESTED  BY  THE  LETTER  OF  A  FRIEND. 

I  SEE  thee  still  before  me,  even 

As  when  we  parted, 
When  o'er  thy  blue  eye's  brilliant  heaven 

A  tear  had  started ; — 
And  a  slight  tremor  in  thy  tone, 
Like  that  of  some  frail  harp  string  blown 

By  fitful  breezes,  faint  and  low, 
Told,  in  that  brief  and  sad  farewell, 
All  that  affection's  heart  may  tell, 

And  more  than  words  can  show ! 

Yet,  thou  art  with  the  dreamless  dead 

Quietly  sleeping, 
Around  the  marble  at  thy  head 

The  wild  grass  creeping ! — 
How  many  thoughts,  which  but  belong 
Unto  the  living  and  the  young, 

Have  whisper'd  from  my  heart  of  thee, 
When  thou  wast  resting  calmly  there, 
Shut  from  the  blessed  sun  and  air — 

From  life  and  love  and  me ! 

Why  did  I  leave  thee  ?— Well  I  knew 

A  flower  so  frail 
Might  sink  beneath  the  Summer  dew, 

Or  soft  Spring  gale: 
I  knew  how  delicately  wrought, 
With  feeling  and  intensest  thought, 

Was  each  sweet  lineament  of  thine; — 
And  that  thy  heavenward  soul  would  gain 
An  early  freedom  from  its  chain, 

Was  there  not  many  a  sign  ? 

There  was  a  brightness  in  thine  eye, 
Yet  not  of  mirth — 


LINES  ON  A  PORTRAIT.  229 

A  light  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  not  of  earthj 
Along  thy  cheek  a  'deepened  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed, 

And,  yet,  each  fearful  token  gave 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Which  spoke  not  of  the  grave! 

Why  did  I  leave  thee  ? — Far  away 

They  told  of  lands 
Glittering  with  gold,  and  none  to  stay 

The  gleaner's  hands. 
For  this  I  left  thee— ay,  and  sold 
The  riches  of  my  heart  for  gold! 

For  yonder  mansion's  vanity — 
For  green  verandas,  hung  with  flowers, 
For  marbled  fount  and  orange  bowers, 

And  grove  and  flowering  tree. 

Vain— worthless,  all  1     The  lowliest  spot 

Enjoy'd  with  thee, 
A  richer  and  a  dearer  lot 

Would  seem  to  me : 
For  well  I  knew  that  thou  couldst  find 
Contentment  in  thy  spotless  mind 

And -in  my  own  unchanging  love. 
Why  did  I  leave  thee  ? — Fully  mine 
The  blessing  of  a  heart  like  thine, 

What  could  I  ask  above  ? 

Mine  is  a  selfish  misery — 

I  cannot  weep 
For  one  supremely  blest,  like  thee, 

With  Heaven's  sleep  ; 
The  passion  and  the  strife  of  time 
Can  never  reach  that  sinless  clime, 

Where  the  redeem'd  of  spirit  dwell ! — 
Why  should  I  weep  that  thou  art  free 
From  all  the  grief  which  maddens  me  ? — 

Sainted  and  loved — Farewell ! 


LINES  ON  A  PORTRAIT. 

How  beautiful ! — That  brow  of  snow, 

That  glossy  fall  of  fair  brown  tresses, 
The  blue  eye's  tranquil  heaven  below, 

The  hancl  whereon  the  fair  cheek  presses, 
Half-shadow'd  by  a  falling  curl 

Which  on  the  temple's  light  reposes — 
Each  finger  like  a  line  of  pearl 

Contrasted  with  the  cheek's  pure  roses! 
There  as  she  sits  beneath  the  shade 


230  -WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

By  vine  and  rose-wreath'd  arbor  made, 

Tempering  the  light  which,  soft  and  warm, 

Reveals  her  full  and  matchless  form, 

In  thoughtful  quietude,  she  seems 

Like  one  of  Raphael's  pictur'd  dreams, 

Where  blend  in  one  all  radiant  face 

The  woman's  warmth — the  angel's  grace  1 

Well — I  can  gaze  upon  it  now, 

As  on  some  cloud  of  autumn's  even, 
Bathing  its  pinions  in  the  glow 

And  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven — 
So  holy  and  so  far  away 

That  love  without  desire  is  cherish'd, 
Like  that  which  lingers  o'er  the  clay 

Whose  warm  and  breathing  life  has  perish'd, 
While  yet  upon  its  brow  is  shed 
The  mournful  beauty  of  the  dead! 
And  I  can  look  on  her  as  one 
Too  pure  for  aught  save  gazing  on — 
An  Idol  in  some  holy  place, 
Which  man  may  kneel  to,  not  caress — 
Or  melting  tone  of  music  heard 
From  viewless  lip,  or  unseen  bird. 

I  know  her  not.     And  what  is  all 

Her  beauty  to  a  heart  like  mine, 
While  memory  yet  hath  power  to  call 

Its  worship  from  a  stranger-shrine  ? 
Still  midst  the  weary  din  of  life 

The  tones  I  love  my  ear  has  met ; 
Midst  lips  of  scorn  and  brows  of  strife 

The  smiles  I  love  are  lingering  yet! 
The  hearts  in  sun  and  shadow  known — 
The  kind  hands  lingering  in  our  own — 
The  cords  of  strong  affection  spun 
By  early  deeds  of  kindness  done — 
The  blessed  sympathies  which  bind 
The  spirit  to  its  kindred  mind, — 
Oh,  who  would  leave  these  tokens  tried 
For  all  the  stranger  world  beside  ? 


THE  MURDERED  LADY. 

A  DARK-HULLED  brig  at  anchor  rides 

Within  the  still  and  moonlit  bay, 
And  round  its  black,  portentous  sides 

The  waves  like  living  creatures  play! 
And  close  at  hand  a  tall  ship  lies, 

A  voyager  from  the  Spanish  Main, 
Laden  with  gold  and  merchandise — 

She'll  ne'er  return  again ! 


THE  MURDERED  LADY.  231 

The  fisher  in  his  seaward  skiff 

Creeps  stealthily  along  the  shore 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  cliff, 

Where  keel  had  never  plowed  before: 
He  turns  him  from  that  stranger  bark 

And  hurries  down  the  silvery  bay, 
Where  like  n  demon  still  and  dark, 
She  watches  o'er  her  prey. 


The  midnight  came. — A  dash  of  oars 

Broke  on  the  ocean-stillness  then, 
And  swept  toward  the  rocky  shores 

The  fierce  wild  forms  of  outlawed  men ; — 
The  tenants  of  this  fearful  ship, 

Grouped  strangely  in  the  pule  moonlight — 
Dark,  iron  brow  and  bearded  lip, 

Ghastly  with  storm  and  fight. 

They  reached  the  shore, — but  who  is  she, 

The  white-robed  one  they  bear  along? 
She  shrieks — she  struggles  to  be  free — 

God  shield  that  gentle  one  from  wrong; 
It  may  not  be, — those  pirate  men 

Along  the  hushed,  deserted  street 
Have  borne  her  to  a  narrow  glen 

Scarce  trod  by  human  feet. 


And  there  the  ruffians  murdered  her, 

When  not  an  eye,  save  Heaven's  beheld, — 
Ask  of  the  shuddering  villager 

What  sounds  upon  the  night-air  swelled: 
Woman's  long  shriek  of  mortal  fear — 

Her  wild  appeal  to  hearts  of  stone, 
The  oath — the  taunt— the  brutal  jeer — 

The  pistol-shot— the  groan! 

With  shout  and  jest  and  losel  song, 

From  savage  tongues  which  knew  no  rein, 
The  staiued  with  murder  passed  along 

And  sought  their  ocean-Jiome  again; 
And  all  the  night  their  revel  came 

In  hoarse  and  sullen  murmurs  on, — 
A  yell  rang  up  —a  burst  of  flame — 

The  Spanish  ship  was  gone ! 

The  morning  light  came  red  and  fast 
Along  the  still  and  blushing  sea; 

The  phantoms  of  the  night  had  passed — 
That  ocean-robber — where,  was  she. K 


232  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Her  sails  were  reaching  from  the  wind, 
Her  crimson  banner-folds  were  stirred; 

And  ever  and  anon  behind 
Her  shouting  crew  were  heard 

Then  came  the  village-dwellers  forth 

And  sought  with  fear  the  fatal  glen ; 
The  stain  of  blood — the  trampled  earth — 

Told  where  the  deed  of  death  had  been. 
They  found  a  grave — a  new  made  one — 

With  bloody  sabres  hollowed  out. 
And  shadowed  from  the  searching  sun 

By  tall  trees  round  about. 

They  left  the  hapless  stranger  there ; 

They  knew  her  sleep  would  be  as  well 
As  if  the  priest  had  poured  his  prayer 

Above  her,  with  the  funeral-bell. 
The  few  poor  rites  which  man  can  pay 

Are  felt  not  by  the  lonely  sleeper; 
The  deaf,  unconscious  ear  of  clay 

Heeds  not  the  living  weeper. 

They  tell  a  tale — those  sea-worn  men 

Who  dwell  along  that  rocky  coast — 
Of  sights  and  sounds  within  the  glen, 

Of  midnight  shriek  and  gliding  ghost. 
And  oh !  if  ever  from  their  chill 

And  dreamless  sleep  the  dead  arise, 
That  victim  of  unhallowed  ill 

Might  wake  to  human  eyes! 

They  say  that  often  when  the  morn 

Is  struggling  with  the  gloomy  even, 
And  over  moon  and  stars  is  drawn 

The  curtain  of  a  clouded  heaven, 
Strange  sounds  swell  up  the  narrow  glen, 

As  if  that  robber-crew  were  there — 
The  hellish  laugh — the  shouts  of  men — 

And  woman's  dying  prayer  ! 


THE  WEIRD  GATHERING. 

A  Trumpet  in  the  darkness  blown — 

A  peal  upon  the  air — 
The  church-yard  answers  to  its  tone 
With  boding  shriek  and  wail  and  groan- 

Th.e  dead  are  gliding  there ' 


WEIRD  GATHERING.  233 

It  rose  upon  the  still  midnight, 
A  summons  long  and  clear — 
The  wakeful  shuddered  with  affright — 
The  dreaming  sleeper  sprang  upright 

And  pressed  his  stunning  ear. 

The  Indian,  where  his  serpent  eye 

Beneath  the  green-wood  shone, 
Started,  and  tossed  his  arms  on  high, 
And  answered,  with  his  own  wild  cry, 

The  sky's  unearthly  tone. 

The  wild  birds  rose  in  startled  flocks 

As  the  long  trumpet  swelled ; 
And  loudly  from  their  old,  gray  rocks 
The  gaunt',  tierce  wolf  and  cavernecl  fox 

In  mutual  terror  yelled. 

There  is  a  wild  and  haunted  glen 

'Twixt  Saugus  and  Naumkeag — 
'Tis  said  of  old  that  wizard-men 
And  demons  to  that  spot  have  been 

To  consecrate  their  league. 

A  fitting  place  for  such  as  these — 

That  small  and  sterile  plain, 
So  girt  about  with  tall  old  trees 
Which  rock  and  groan  in  every  breeze, 

Like  spirits  cursed  with  pain. 

It  was  the  witch's  trysting-place, 

The  wizard's  chosen  ground, 
Where  the  accursed  of  human  race 
With  demons  gathered,  face  to  face, 

By  the  midnight  trumpet's  sound. 

And  there  that  night  the  trumpet  rang 

And  rock  and  hill  replied, 
And  down  the  glen  strange  shadows  sprang, 
Mortal  and  fiend— a  wizard  gang — 

Seen  dimly  side  by  side. 

They  gathered  there  from  every  land 

That  slecpeth  in  the  sun, — 
The}^  came  with  spell  and  charm  in  hand, 
Waiting  their  Master's  high  command — 

Slaves  to  the  Evil  One! 

From  islands  of  the  far-off  seas — 

From  Hecla's  ice  and  flame — 
From  where  the  loud  and  savage  breeze 
Growls  through  the  tall  Norwegian  trees 

Seer,  witch,  and  wizard  camel 


234:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  from  the  sunny  land  of  palms 

The  negro  hag  was  there — 
The  Gree-gree,  with  his  Obi  charms — 
The  Indian,  with  his  tattooed  arms 
And  wild  and  streaming  hair. 

The  Gypsy,  with  hqr  fierce,  dark  eyes, 
The  worshipper  of  flame — 

The  searcher  out  of  mysteries 

Above  a  human  sacrifice — 
All — all — together  came ! 

***** 
Nay,  look  not  down  that  lighted  dell, 

Thou  startled  traveller!  — 
Thy  Christian  eye  should  never  dwell 
On  gaunt,  gray  witch  and  fiend  of  hell 
And  evil  Trumpeter! 

But  the  traveller  turned  him  from  his  way, 

For  he  heard  the  revelling, 
And  saw  the  red  light's  wizard  ray 
Among  the  dark-leafed  branches  play 
Like  an  unholy  thing 

He  knelt  him  on  the  rocks  and  cast 

A  fearful  glance  beneath ; 
Wizard  and  hag  before  him  passed, 
Each  wilder,  fiercer  than  the  last, — 
His  heart  grew  cold  as  death ! 

He  saw  the  dark-browed  Trumpeter, 

In  human  shape  was  he ; 
And  witch  and  fiend  and  sorcerer, 
With  shriek  and  laugh  and  curses,  were 

Assembled  at  his  knee. 

And  lo !  beneath  his  straining  glance 

A  light  form  stole  along — 
Free,  as  if  moving  to  the  dance, 
He  saw  her  fairy  steps  advance 
Toward  the  evil  throng. 

The  light  along  her  forehead  played — 

A  wan,  unearthly  glare ; 
Her  cheek  was  pale  beneath  the  shade 
The  wildness  of  her  tresses  made, 

Yet  nought  of  fear  was  there! 

Now  God  have  mercy  on  thy  brain,  t 

Thou  stricken  traveller! 
Look  on  thy  victim  once  again, 
Bethink  thee  of  her  wrongs  and  pain- 
Dost  thou  remember  her  ? 


THE  WEIRD  GATHERING.  235 

The  traveller  smote  his  burning  brow, 

For  he  saw  the  wronged  one  there — 
He  knew  her  by  her  forehead's  snow, 
And  by  her  large  blue  eye  below, 

And  by  her  wild,  dark  hair. 

Slowly,  yet  firm  she  held  her  way, — 

The  wizard's  song  grew  still — 
The  sorcerer  left  his  elfish  play, 
And  hideous  imp  and  beldame  gray 

Waited  the  stranger's  will. 

A  voice  came  up  that  place  of  fear — 

The  Trumpeter's  hoarse  tone : 
"  Speak — who  art  thou  that  comest  here 
With  brow  baptized  and  Christian  ear, 

Unsummoned  and  alone  ?  " 

One  moment,  and  a  tremor  shook 

Her  light  and  graceful  frame, — 
It  passed,  and  then  her  features  took 
A  fiercer  and  a  haughtier  look 

As  thus  her  answer  came: — 

"  Spirits  of  evil- 
Workers  of  doom ! — 

Lo !  to  your  revel 
For  vengeance  I  come — 

Vengeance  on  him 
Who  hath  blighted  my  fame! 

Fill  his  cup  to  the  brim 

With  a  curse  without  name! 
Let  his  false  heart  inherit 

The  madness  of  mine, 
And  I  yield  ye  my  spirit 

And  bow  at  your  shrine !  " 

A  sound— a  mingled  laugh  and  yell, 

Went  howling  fierce  and  far; 
A  redder  light  shone  through  the  dell, 
As  if  the  very  gates  of  hell 

Swung  suddenly  ajar. 

"  Breathe  then  thy  curse,  thou  daring  one/' 

A  low,  deep  voice  replied : 
"  Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  done, 
The  burthen  of  thy  doom  upon 

The  false  one  shall  abide." 

The  maiden  stood  erect — her  brow- 
Grew  dark  as  those  around  her, 

As  burned  upon  her  lip  that  vow 

Which  Christian  ear  may  never  know,-" 
And  the  dark  fetter  bound  her! 


236  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Ay,  there  she  stood — the  holy  Heaven 

Was  looking  down  on  her — 
An  angel  from  her  bright  home  driven — 
A  spirit  lost  and  doomed  and  given 

To  fiend  and  sorcerer ! 

And  changed — how  changed ! — her  aspect  grew 

Fearful  and  elfish  there ; 
The  warm  tinge  from  her  cheek  withdrew, 
And  one  dark  spot  of  blood-red  hue 

Burned  on  her  forehead  fair. 

Wild  from  her  eye  of  madness  shone 

The  baleful  fire  within, 
As  with  a  shrill  and  lifted  tone 
She  made  her  fearful  purpose  known 

Before  the  powers  of  sin : — 

"Let  my  curse  be  upon  him — 

The  faithless  of  heart ! 
Let  the  smiles  that  have  won  him 

In  frowning  depart! 
Let  his  last,  cherished  blossom 

Of  sympathy  die, 
And  the  hopes  of  his  bosom 

In  shadows  go  by ! 
Ay,  curse  him — but  keep 

The  poor  boon  of  his  breath 
Till  he  sigh  for  the  sleep 

And  the  quiet  of  death ! 
Let  a  viewless  one  haunt  him 

With  whisper  and  jeer, 
And  an  evil  one  daunt  him 

With  phantoms  of  fear! 
Be  the  fiend  unforgiving 

That  follows  his  tread ! 
Let  him  walk  with  the  living, 

Yet  gaze  on  the  dead ! " 

She  ceased.     The  doomed  one  felt  the  spell 

Already  on  his  brain ; 
He  turned  him  from  the  wizard-dell; 
He  prayed  to  Heaven ;  he  cursed  at  hell ; — 

He  wept — and  all  in  vain. 

The  night  was  one  of  mortal  fear; 

The  morning  rose  to  him 
Dark  as  the  shroudings  of  a  bier, 
As  if  the  blessed  atmosphere, 

Like  his  own  soul,  was  dim. 

He  passed  among  his  fellow -men. 

With  wild  and  dreamy  air, 
For,  whispering  in  his  ear  again 


THE  WEIRD  GATHERING.  237 

The  horrors  of  the  midnight  glen, 
The  demon  found  him  there. 

And  when  he  would  have  knelt  and  prayed 

Amidst  his  household  baud, 
An  unseen  power  his  spirit  stayed, 
And  on  his  moving  lip  was  laid 

A  hot  and  burning  hand ! 

The  lost  one  in  the  solitude 

Of  dreams  he  gazed  upon, 
And  when  the  holy  morning  glowed 
Her  dark  eye  shone,  her  wild  hair  flowed 

Between  him  and  the  sun! 

His  brain  grew  wild, — and  then  he  died; 

Yet,  ere  his  heart  grew  cold, 
To  the  gray  priest  who  at  his  side 
The  strength  of  prayer  and  blessing  tried, 

His  fearful  tale  was  told. 
*  *  #  *  * 

They've  bound  the  witch  with  many  a  thong — 

The  holy  priest  is  near  her ; 
And  ever  as  she  moves  along, 
A  murmur  rises  fierce  and  strong 

From  those  who  hate  and  fear  her 

She's  standing  up  for  sacrifice 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree ; 
The  silent  town  beneath  her  lies, 
Above  her  are  the  summer  skies, 

Far  off  the  quiet  sea. 

So  young — so  frail — so  very  fair — 

Why  should  the  victim  die  ? 
Look  on  her  brow !— the  red  stain  there 
Burns  underneath  her  tangled  hair — 

And  mark  her  fiery  eye ! 

A  thousand  eyes  are  looking  up 

In  scorn  and  hate  to  her ; 
A  bony  hand  hath  coiled  the  rope, 
And  yawns  upon  the  green  hill's  slope 

The  witch's  sepulchre ! 

Ha!  she  hath  spurned  both  priest  and  book — 

Her  hand  is  tossed  on  high — 
Her  curse  is  loud,  she  will  not  brook 
The  impatient  crowd's  abiding  look — 

Hark !  how  she  shrieks  to  die ! 

Up — up — one  struggle — all  is  done! 

One  groan — the  deed  is  wrought! 
Wo  for  the  wronged  and  fallen  onel 
Her  corse  is  blackened  in  the  sun, 

Her  spirit — trace  it  not  1 


238 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  BLACK  FOX. 


IT  was  on  a  cold  and  cruel  night, 
Some  fourscore  years  ago, 

The  clouds  across  the  winter  sky 
Were  scudding  to  and  fro ; 

The  air  above  was  cold  and  keen, 
'the  earth  was  white  below. 

Around  an  ancient  fireplace 
A  happy  household  drew ; 

The  husband  and  his  own  goodwife, 
And  children  not  a  few ; 

And  bent  above  the  spinning-wheel 
The  aged  grandame  too. 

The    fire-light    reddened    all    the 

room, 

It  rose  so  high  and  strong, 
And  mirth  was  in  each   pleasant 

eye 

Within  that  household  throng : 
And  while  the   grandame    turned 

her  wheel 
The  good  man  hummed  a  song. 

At  length  spoke  up  a  fair-haired 
girl, 

Some  seven  summers  old, 
"Now  grandame,  tell  the  tale  again 

Which  yesterday  you  told ; 
About  the  Black  Fox  and  the  men 

Who  followed  him  so  bold." 

"Yes,  tell   it,"  said  a  dark-eyed 
boy, 

And  "  Tell  it,"  said  his  brother; 
"Just  tell  the  story  of  the  Fox, 

We  will  not  ask  another." 
And  all  the  children  gathered  close 

Around  their  old  grandmother 

Then  lightly  in  her  withered  hands 
The  grandame  turned  her  reel. 

And  when  the  thread  was  wound 

away 
She  set  aside  her  wheel, 

And  smiled  with  that  peculiar  joy 
The  old  and  happy  feel, 


"  'Tis  more  than  sixty  years  ago 
Since  first  the  Fox  was  seen — 

'Twas  in  the  winter  of  the  year, 
When  not  a  leaf  was  green, 

Save  where  the  dark  old  hemlock 

stood 
The  naked  oaks  between. 

"  My  father  saw  the  creature  first, 
One  bitter  winter's  day — 

It  passed  so  near  that  he  could  see 
Its  fiery  eyeballs  play, 

And  well  he  knew  an  evil  thing, 
And  foul,  had  crossed  his  way. 

"  A  hunter  like  my  father  then 
We  never  more  shall  see — 

The  mountain-cat  was  not  more 

swift 
Of  eye  and  foot  than  he  : 

His  aim  was  fatal  in  the  air 
And  on  the  tallest  tree. 

"  Yet  close  beneath  his  ready  aim 
The  Black  Fox  hurried  on, 

And  when  the  forest  echoes  mocked 
The  sharp  voice  of  his  gun, 

The  creature  gave  a  frightful  yell, 
Long,  loud,  but  only  one. 

' '  And  there  was  something  horrible 
And  fiendish  in  that  yell  ; 

Our  good  old  parson  heard  it  once, 
And  I  have  heard  him  tell 

That  it  might  well  be  likened  to 
A  fearful  cry  from  hell. 

' '  Day  after  day  that  Fox  was  seen, 
He  prowled  our  forests  through, 

Still  gliding  wild  and  spectre-like 
Before  the  hunter's  view ; 

And    howling    louder    than    the 

storm 
When  savagely  it  blew. 

"The    Indians,    when    upon    the 

wind 
That  howl  rose  long  and  clear, 


THE  BLACK  FOX. 


239 


Shook   their  wild   heads  mysteri 
ously 

And  muttered,  as  in  fear; 
Or  veiled  their  eyes,  as  if  they  knew 

An  evil  thing  was  near. 

"  They  said  it  was  a  Fox  accurst 

By  Hobomocko's  will, 
That  it  was  once  a  mighty  chief 

Whom  battle  might  not  kill, 
But     who,     for    some    unspoken 
crime, 

Was  doomed  to  wander  still. 

"  That  every  year,  when  all  the 

•hills 

Were  white  with  winter  snow, 
And  the  tide  of  Salmon  River  ran 

The  gathering  ice  below, 
His  howl  was  heard  and  his  form 

was  seen 
Still  hurrying  to  and  fro. 

"At  length    two   gallant    hunter 

youths, 

The  boast  and  pride  of  all — 
The  gayest  in  the  hour  of  mirth 

The  first  at  danger's  call, 
Our    playmates    at    the    village 

school, 
Our  partners  at  the  ball — 

"  Went  forth  to  hunt  the  sable  Fox 
Beside  that  haunted  stream, 

Where  it  so  long  had  glided  like 
The  creature  of  a  dream, 

Or  like  unearthly  forms  that  dance 
Under  the  cold  moonbeam ! 

"  They  went  away  one  winter  day, 
When  all  the  air  was  white, 

And  thick  and  hazed  with  falling 

snow, 
And  blinding  to  the  sight ; 

They  bade  us  never  fear  for  them, 
They  would  return  by  night. 

"  The  night  fell  thick  and  darkly 

down, 

And  still  the  storm  blew  on ; 
And  yet  the    hunters    came    not 

back, 
Their  task  was  yet  undone ; 


Nor  came  they  with  their  words  of 

cheer, 
Even  with  the  morrow's  sun. 

"  And  then  our  old  men  shook  their 
heads, 

And  the  red  Indians  told 
Their  tales  of  evil  sorcery 

Until  our  blood  ran  cold, — 
The  stories  of  their  Powwow  seers, 

And  withered  hags  of  old. 

"  They  told  us  that  our  hunters 

Would  never  more  return — 
That   they  would  hunt  for  ever 
more 
Through    tangled    swamp    and 

fern, 

And  that  their  last  and  dismal  fate 
No  mortal  e'er  might  learn. 

"And    days    and    weeks    passed 
slowly  on, 

And  yet  they  came  not  back, 
Nor  evermore  by  stream  or  hill 

Was  seen  that  form  of  black — 
Alas !  for  those  who  hunted  still 

Within  its  fearful  track ! 

"  But  when    the    winter    passed 

away, 

And  early  flowers  began 
To  bloom  along  the  sunned  hill 
side, 

And  where  the  waters  ran, 
There  came  unto  my  father's  door 
A  melancholy  man. 

"  His  form  had  not  the  sign  of 

years, 

And  yet  his  locks  were  white, 
And  in  his  deep  and  restless  eye 

There  was  a  fearful  light; 
And  from  its  glance   we   turned 

away 
As  from  an  adder's  sight. 

"  We  placed  our  food  before  that 
man, 

So  haggard  and  so  wild, — 
Pie  thrust  it  from  his  lips  as  he 

Had  been  a  fretful  child; 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And  when  we  spoke  with  words  of 

cheer, 
Most  bitterly  he  smiled. 

"  He  smiled,  and  then  a  gush  of 
tears, 

And  then  a  fierce,  wild  look, 
And  then  he  murmured  of  the  Fox 

Which  haunted  Salmon  Brook, 
Until  his  hearers  every  one 

With  nameless  terror  shook. 

"  He  turned  away  with  a  frightful 

cry, 

And  hurried  madly  on, 
As  if  the  dark  and  spectral  thing 

Before  his  path  had  gone : 
We  called  him  back,  but  he  heeded 

not 
The  kind  and  warning  tone. 

"  He  came  not  back  to  us  again, 
But  the  Indian  hunters  said 

That  far,  where  the  howling  wilder 
ness 
Its  leafy  tribute  shed, 

They  found  our  missing  hunters — 
Naked  and  cold  and  dead. 


"Their  grave  they  made  beneath 

the  shade 

Of  the  old  and  solemn  wood, 
Where  oaks  by  Time  alone  hewn 

down 

For  centuries  had  stood, 
And  left  them   without  shroud  or 

prayer 
In  the  dark  solitude. 

"  The  Indians  always  shun  that 

grave — 

The  wild  deer  treads  not  there — 
The   green  grass  is  not   trampled 

down 

By  catamount  or  bear — 
The  soaring  wild-bird  turns  away, 
Even  in  the  upper  air. 

"For  people  said  that  every  year, 

When  winter  snows  are  spread 
All  over  the  face  of  the  frozen 

earth, 

And  the  forest  leaves  are  shed, 
The  Spectre  Fox  comes  forth  and 

howls 
Above  the  hunters'  bed." 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

GRAY  searcher  of  the  upper  air! 

There's  sunshine  on  thy  ancient  walls — 
A  crown  upon  the  forehead  bare — 

A  flashing  on  thy  water-falls — 
A  rainbow  glory  in  the  cloud, 
Upon  thy  awful  summit  bowed, 

Dim  relic  of  the  recent  storm ! 
And  music,  from  the  leafy  shroud 
Which  wraps  in  green  thy  giant  form, 
Mellowed  and  softened  from  above, 

Steals  down  upon  the  listening  ear, 
Sweet  as  the  maiden's  dream  of  love, 

With  soft  tones  melting  on  her  ear, 

The  time  has  been,  gray  mountain,  when 
Thy  shadows  veiled  the  red  man's  home ; 

And  over  crag  and  serpent  den, 

And  wild  gorge,  where  the  steps  of  men 
In  chase  or  battle  might  not  come, 

The  mountain  eagle  bore  on  high 
The  emblem  of  the  free  of  soul; 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.  241 

And  midway  in  the  fearful  sky 
Sent  back  the  Indian's  battle-cry, 
Or  answered  to  the  thunder's  roll. 

The  wigwam  fires  have  all  burned  out — 

The  moccasin  hath  left  no  track — 
Nor  wolf  nor  wild-deer  roam  about 

The  Saco  or  the  Merrimack. 
And  thou  that  liftest  up  on  high 
Thine  awful  barriers  to  the  sky, 

Art  not  the  haunted  mount  of  old, 
When  on  each  crag  of  blasted  stone 

Some  mountain-spirit  found  a  throne, 

And  shrieked  from  out  the  thick  cloud-fold, 
And  answered  to  the  Thunderer's  cry 
When  rolled  the  cloud  of  tempest  by, 
And  jutting  rock  and  riven  branch 
Went  down  before  the  avalanche. 

The  Father  of  our  people  then 

Upon  thy  awful  summit  trod, 
And  the  red  dwellers  of  the  glen 

Bowed  down  before  the  Indian's  God. 
There,  when  His  shadow  veiled  the  sky, 

The  Thunderer's  voice  was  long  and  loud, 
And  the  red  flashes  of  His  eye 

Were  pictured  on~the  o'erhanging  cloud. 

The  Spirit  moveth  there  no  more, 

The  dwellers  of  the  hill  have  gone, 
The  sacred  groves  are  trampled  o'er, 

And  footprints  mar  the  altar-stone, 
The  white  man  climbs  thy  tallest  rock 

And  hangs  him  from  the  mossy  steep, 
Where,  trembling  to  the  cloud-fire's  shock, 
Thy  ancient  prison-walls  unlock, 
And  captive  waters  leap  to  light, 
And  dancing  down  from  height  to  height, 

Pass  onward  to  the  far-off  deep. 

Oh,  sacred  to  the  Indian  seer, 

Gray  altar  of  the  days  of  old ! 
Still  are  thy  rugged  features  dear, 
As  when  unto  my  infant  ear 

The  legends  of  the  past  were  told. 
Tales  of  the  downward  sweeping  flood, 
When  bowed  like  reeds  thy  ancient  wood, — 

Of  armed  hand  and  spectral  form, 
Of  giants  in  their  misty  shroud, 
And  voices  calling  long  and  loud 

In  the  drear  pauses  of  the  storm  1 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Farewell !     The  red  man's  face  is  turned 

Toward  another  hunting  ground ; 
For  where  the  council-fire  has  burned, 

And  o'er  the  sleeping  warrior's  mound 
Another  fire  is  kindled  now : 
Its  light  is  on  the  white  man's  brow ! 

The  hunter  race  have  passed  away — 
Ay,  vanished  like  the  morning  mist, 
Or  dewdrops  by  the  sunshine  kissed, — 

And  wherefore  should  the  red  man  stay  ? 


THE  INDIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  War-God  did  not  wake  to  strife 

The  strong  men  of  our  forest  land, 
No  red  hand  grasped  the  battle-knife 

At  Areouski's  high  command: — 
We  held  no  war-dance  by  the  dim 

And  red  light  of  the  creeping  flame; 
Nor  warrior  yell,  nor  battle  hymn 

Upon  the  midnight  breezes  came. 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky, 

No  shadow  on  the  round,  bright  sun, 

With  light  and  mirth  and  melody 
The  long,  fair  summer  days  came  on. 

We  were  a  happy  people  then, 
Rejoicing  in  our  hunter  mood 

No  footprints  of  the  pale-faced  men 
Had  marred  our  forest  solitude. 

The  land  was  ours — this  glorious  land — 

With  all  its  wealth  of  wood  and  streams; 
Our  warriors  strong  of  heart  and  hand, 

Our  daughters  beautiful  as  dreams. 
When  wearied  at  the  thirsty  noon, 

We  knelt  us  where  the  spring  gushed  up, 
To  taste  our  Father's  blessed  boon — 

Unlike  the  white  man's  poison  cup. 

There  came  unto  my  father's  hut 

A  wan,  weak  creature  of  distress; 
The  red  man's  door  is  never  shut 

Against  the  lone  and  shelterless. 
And  when  he  knelt  before  his  feet, 

My  father  led  the  stranger  in ; 
He  gave  him  of  his  hunter  meat — 

Alas !  It  was  a  deadly  sin ! 

The  stranger's  voice  was  not  like  ours — 
His  face  at  first  was  sadly  pale, 


THE  INDIAN'S  TALE.  243 

Anon  'twas  like  the  yellow  flowers 

Which  tremble  in  the  meadow  gale : 
And  when  he  laid  him  down  to  die, 

And  murmured  of  his  fatherland, 
My  mother  wiped  his  tearful  eye, 

My  father  held  his  burning  hand ! 

He  died  at  last — the  funeral  yell 

Rang  upward  from  his  burial  sod, 
And  the  old  Powwah  knelt  to  tell 

The  tidings  to  the  white  man's  God! 
The  next  day  came— my  father's  brow 

Grew  heavy  with  a  fearful  pain, 
He  did  not  take  his  hunting-bow — 

He  never  sought  the  woods  again? 

He  died  even  as  the  white  man  died ; 

My  mother,  she  was  smitten  too ; 
My  sisters  vanished  from  my  side, 

Like  diamonds  from  the  sunlit  dew. 
And  then  we  heard  the  Powwahs  say 

That  God  had  sent  his  angel  forth 
To  sweep  our  ancient  tribes  away, 

And  poison  and  unpeople  Earth. 

And  it  was  so:  from  day  to  day 

The  Spirit  of  the  Plague  went  on — 
And  those  at  morning  blithe  and  gay 

Were  dying  at  the  set  of  sun. 
They  died — our  free,  bold  hunters  died — 

The  living  might  not  give  them  graves, 
Save  when  along  the  water-side 

They  cast  them  to  the  hurrying  waves. 

The  carrion  crow,  the  ravenous  beast, 

Turned  loathing  from  the  ghastly  dead ; 
Well  might  they  shun  the  funeral  feast 

By  that  destroying  angel  spread ! 
One  after  one  the  red  men  fell, 

Our  gallant  war-tribe  passed  away, 
And  I  alone  am  left  to  tell 

The  story  of  its  swift  decay. 

Alone — alone — a  withered  leaf, 

Yet  clinging  to  its  naked  bough; 
The  pale  race  scorn  the  aged  chief, 

And  I  will  join  my  fathers  now. 
The  spirits  of  my  people  bend 

At  midnight  from  the  solemn  West, 
To  me  their  kindly  arms  extend, 

To  call  me  to  their  borne  of  rest  1 


244  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  SPECTRE  SHIP. 

THE  morning  light  is  breaking  forth 

All  over  the  dark  blue  sea, 
And  the  waves  are  changed— they  are  rich  with  gold 

As  the  morning  waves  should  be, 
And  the  rising  winds  are  wandering  out 

On  their  seaward  pinions  free. 

The  bark  is  ready,  the  sails  are  set, 

And  the  boat  rocks  on  the  shore — 
Say  why  do  the  passengers  linger  yet  ? 

Is  not  the  farewell  o'er  ? 
Do  those  who  enter  that  gallant  ship 

Go  forth  to  return  no  more  ? 

A  wailing  rose  by  the  water-side, 

A  young,  fair  girl  was  there, 
With  a  face  as  pale  as  the  face  of  Death 

When  its  ccffiu-lid  is  bare ; 
And  an  eye  as  strangely  beautiful 

As  a  star  in  the  upper  air 

She  leaned  on  a  youthful  stranger's  arm — 

A  tall  and  silent  one — 
Who  stood  in  the  very  midst  of  the  crowd, 

Yet  uttered  a  word  to  none ; 
He  gazed  on  the  sea  and  the  waiting-ship, 

But  he  gazed  on  them  alone ! 

The  fair  girl  leaned  on  the  stranger's  arm, 

And  she  wept  as  one  in  fear, 
But  he  heeded  not  the  plaintive  moan 

And  the  dropping  of  the  tear ; 
His  eye  was  fixed  on  the  stirring  sea, 

Cold,  darkly  and  severe! 

The  boat  was  filled — the  shore  was  left — 

The  farewell  word  was  said — 
But  the  vast  crowd  lingered  still  behind 

With  an  overpowering  dread ; 
They  feared  that  stranger  and  his  bride, 

So  pale  and  like  the  dead. 

And  many  said  that  an  evil  pair 

Among  their  friends  had  gone, — 
A  demon  with  his  human  prey, 

From  the  quiet  graveyard  drawn ; 
And  a  prayer  was  heard  that  the  innocent 

Might  escape  the  Evil  One, 


THE  SPECTRE  SHIP.  245 

Awajr — the  good  ship  sped  away, 

Out  on  the  broad  high  seas, 
The  sun  upon  her  path  before— 

Behind,  the  steady  breeze — 
And  there  was  naught  in  sea  or  sky 

Of  fearful  auguries. 

The  day  passed  on — the  sunlight  fell 

All  slantwise  from  the  west, 
And  then  the  heavy  clouds  of  storm 
*^  Sat  on  the  ocean's  breast; 

•  And  every  swelling  billow'd  mourn'd 

Like  a  living  thing  distressed. 

The  sun  went  down  among  the  clouds, 

Tinging  with  sudden  gold, 
The  fall-like  shadow  of  the  storm, 

On  every  mighty  fold — 
And  then  the  lightning's  eye  look'd  forth 

And  the  red  thunder  rolled. 

The  storm  came  down  upon  the  sea, 

In  its  surpassing  dread, 
Rousing  the  white  and  broken  surge 

Above  its  rocky  bed, 
As  if  the  deep  was  stirred  beneath 

A  giant's  viewless  tread. 

All  night  the  hurricane  went  on, 

And  all  along  the  shore 
The  smothered  cry  of  shipwreck'd  mea 

Blent  with  the  ocean's  roar; 
The  gray-haired  man  had  scarcely  known 

So  wild  a  night  before. 

Morn  rose  upon  a  tossing  sea, 
The  tempest's  work  was  done, 

And  freely  over  land  and  wave 
Shone  out  the  blessed  sun ; 

But  where  was  she— the  merchant  bark- 
Where  had  the  good  ship  gone  ? 

Men  gathered  on  the  shore  to  watch 

The  billows'  heavy  swell, 
Hoping,  yet  fearing  much,  some  frail 

Memorial  might  tell 
The  fate  of  that  disastrous  ship — 

Of  friends  they  loved  so  well. 

None  came — the  billows  smoothed  away, 

And  all  was  strangely  calm, 
As  if  the  very  sea  had  felt 

A  necromancer's  charm ; 


24:6  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  not  a  trace  was  left  behind 
Of  violence  and  harm. 

The  twilight  came  with  sky  of  gold, 

And  curtaining  of  night — 
And  then  a  sudden  cry  rang  out, 

"A  ship — the  ship  in  sight!  " 
And  lo !  tall  masts  grew  visible 

Within  the  fading  light. 

Near  and  more  near  the  ship  came  on, 
With  all  her  broad  sails  spread — 

The  night  grew  thick,  but  a  phantom  light 
Around  her  path  was  shed, 

And  the  gazers  shuddered  as  on  she  came, 
For  against  the  wind  she  sped. 

They  saw  by  the  dim  and  baleful  glare 

Around  that  voyager  thrown, 
The  upright  forms  of  the  well-known  crew, 

As  paled  and  fixed  as  stone ; 
And  they  called  to  them,  but  no  sound  came  back 

Save  the  echoed  cry  alone. 

The  fearful  stranger  youth  was  there, 

And  clasped  in  his  embrace 
The  pale  and  passing  sorrowful 

Gazed  wildly  in  his  face, 
Like  one  who  had  been  wakened  from 

The  silent  burial-place. 

A  shudder  ran  along  the  crowd, 

And  a  holy  man  knelt  there, 
On  the  wet  sea-sand,  and  offered  up 

A  faint  and  trembling  prayer, 
That  God  would  shield  his  people  from 

The  spirits  of  the  air! 

And  lo!  the  vision  passed  away — 

The  spectre  ship— the  crew — 
The  stranger  and  his  pallid  bride, 

Departed  from  their  view ; 
And  nought  was  left  upon  the  waves 

Beneath  the  arching  blue. 

It  passed  away,  that  vision  strange, 

Forever  from  their  sight, 
Yet  long  shall  Naumkeag's  annals  tell 

The  story  of  that  night — 
The  phantom  bark — the  ghostly  crew — 

The  pale,  encircling  light. 


THE  SPECTRE  WARRIORS.  247 


THE  SPECTRE  WARRIORS. 

AWAY  to  your  arms!  for  the  foemen  are  here, 
The  yell  of  the  red  mau  is  loud  on  the  ear! 
On — on  to  the  garrison — soldiers  away, 
The  moccasin's  track  shall  be  bloody  to-day. 

The  fortress  is  reached,  they  have  taken  their  stand, 
With  war-knife  in  girdle,  and  rifle  in  hand; — 
Their  wives  are  behind  them,  the  savage  before — 
Will  the  Puritan  fail  at  his  hearthstone  and  door  ? 

There's  a  yell  in  the  forest,  unearthly  and  dread, 
Like  the  shriek  of  a  fiend  o'er  the  place  of  the  dead; 
Again — how  it  swells  through  the  forest  afar — 
Have  the  tribes  of  the  fallen  arisen  to  war  ? 

Ha — look!  they  are  coming — not  cautious  and  slow, 
In  the  serpent-like  mood  of  the  blood-seeking  foe, 
Nor  stealing  in  shadow  nor  hiding  in  grass, 
But  tall  and  uprightly  and  sternly  they  pass. 

"  Be  ready !  " — the  watchword  has  passed  on  the  wall — 
The  maidens  have  shrunk  to  the  innermost  hall — 
The  rifles  are  levelled — each  head  is  bowed  low — 
Each  eye  fixes  steady — God  pity  the  foe! 

They  are  closely  at  hand!     Ha!  the  red  flash  has  broke 
From  the  garrisoned  wall  through  a  curtain  of  smoke, 
There's  a  yell  from  the  dying — that  aiming  was  true — 
The  red  man  no  more  shall  his  hunting  pursue ! 

Look,  look  to  the  earth,  as  the  smoke  rolls  away, 
Do  the  dying  and  dead  on  the  green  herbage  lay  ? 
What  mean  those  wild  glances  V  no  slaughter  is  there — 
The  red  man  has  gone  like  the  mist  on  the  air! 

Unharmed  as  the  bodiless  air  he  has  gone 
From  the  war  knife's  edge  and  the  ranger's  long  gun, 
And  the  Puritan  warrior  has  turned  him  away 
From  the  weapons  of  war,  and  is  kneeling  to  pray ! 

He  fears  that  the  Evil  and  Dark  One  is  near, 
On  an  errand  of  wrath,  with  his  phantoms  of  fear 
And  he  knows  that  the  aim  of  his  rifle  is  vain — 
That  the  spectres  of  evil  may  never  be  slain! 

He  knows  that  the  Powwah  has  cunning  and  skill 
To  call  up  the  Spirit  of  Darkness  at  will ; 
To  waken  the  dead  in  their  wilderness-graves, 
And  summons  the  demons  of  forest  and  waves. 

And  he  layeth  the  weapons  of  battle  aside, 
And  forgetteth  the  strength  of  his  natural  pride, 
And  he  kneels  with  the  priest  by  his  garrisoned  door, 
That  the  spectres  of  evil  may  haunt  him  no  more ! 


24:8  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  LAST  NORRIDGEWOCK. 

SHE  stood  beneath  the  shadow  of  an  oak, 
Grim  with  uncounted  winters,  and  whose  boughs 
Had  sheltered  in  their  youth  the  giant  forms 
Of  the  great  #chief  tain's  warriors.     She  was  fair, 
Even  to  a  white  man's  vision — and  she  wore 
A  blended  grace  and  dignity  of  mien 
Which  might  befit  the  daughter  of  a  king — 
The  queenliness  of  nature.     She  had  all 
The  magic  of  proportion  which  might  haunt 
The  dream  of  some  rare  painter,  or  steal  in 
Upon  the  musings  of  the  sanctuary 
Like  an  unreal  vision.     She  was  dark, — 
There  was  no  play  of  crimson  on  her  cheek, 
Yet  were  !*&•  features  beautiful.     Her  eye 
Was  clear  qpd  wild — and  brilliant  as  a  beam 
/         Of  the  live  sunshine  ;  and  her  long,  dark  hair 
Sway'd  in  ridh  masses  to  th'  unquiet  wind. 
The  West  was  glad  with  sunset.     Over  all 
The  green  hills  and  the  wilderness  there  fell 
A  great  and  sudden  glory.     Half  the  sky 
Was  full  of  glorious  tints,  as  if  the  home 
And  fountain  of  the  rainbow  were  revealed ; 
And  through  its  depth  of  beauty  looked  the  star 
Of  the  blest  Evening,  like  an  angel's  eye. 

The  Indian  watched  the  sunset,  and  her  eye 

Glistened  one  moment;  then  a  tear  fell  down, 

For  she  was  dreaming  of  her  fallen  race — 

The  mighty  who  had  perished — for  her  creed 

Had  taught  her  that  the  spirits  of  the  brave 

And  beautiful  were  gathered  in  the  West — 

The  red  man's  Paradise ; — and  then  she  sang 

Faintly  her  song  of  sorrow,  with  a  low 

And  half-hushed  tone,  as  if  she  knew  that  those 

Who  listened  were  unearthly  auditors, 

And  that  the  dead  had  bowed  themselves  to  hear. 

"  The  moons  of  autumn  wax  and  wane,  the  sound  of  swelling  floods 
Is  borne  upon  the  mournful  wind,  and  broadly  on  the  woods 
The  colors  of  the  changing  leaves — the  fair,  frail  flowers  of  frost, 
Before  the  round  and  yellow  sun  most  beautiful  are  tossed. 
The  morning  breaketh  with  a  clear,  bright  pencilling  of  sky, 
And  blushes  through  its  golden  clouds  as  the  great  sun  goes  by; 
And  evening  lingers  in  the  West — more  beautiful  than  dreams 
Which  whisper  of  the  Spirit-land,  its  wilderness  and  streams! 

"  A  little  time — another  moon — the  forest  will  be  sad — 

The  streams  will  mourn  the  pleasant  light  which  made  their  journey 


THE  LAST  NORRIDGEWOCK.  249 

The  morn  will  faintly  lighten  up,  the  sunlight  glisten  cold, 

And  wane  into  the  western  sky  without  its  autumn  gold. 

"  And  yet  I  weep  not  for  the  sign  of  desolation  near — 

The  ruin  of  iny  hunter  race  may  only  ask  a  tear, — 

The  wailing  streams  will  laugh  again,  the  naked  trees  put  on 

The  beauty  of  their  summer  green  beneath  the  summer  sun; 

The  autumn  cloud  will  yet  again  its  crimson  draperies  fold, 

The  star  of  sunset  smile  again — a  diamond  set  in  gold! 

But  never  for  their  forest  lake,  or  for  their  mountain  path, 

The  mighty  of  our  race  shall  leave  the  hunting  ground  of  Death, 

"  I  know  the  tale  my  fathers  told — the  legend  of  their  fame — 

The  glory  of  our  spotless  race  before  the  pale  ones  came — 

When  asking  fellowship  of  none,  by  turns  the  foe  of  all, 

The  death-bolts  of  our  vengeance  fell,  as  Heaven's  own  lightnings  fall; 

When  at  the  call  of  Tacomet,  my  warrior-sire  of  old, 

The  war-shout  of  a  thousand  men  upon  the  midnight  rolled; 

And  fearless  and  companionless  our  warriors  strode  alone, 

And  from  the  big  lake  to  the  sea  the  green  earth  was  their  own. 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?    Around  their  changed  and  stranger-peopled 

home, 

Full  sadly  o'er  their  thousand  graves  the  flowers  of  autumn  bloom — 
The  bow  of  strength  is  buried  with  the  calumet  and  spear, 
And  the  spent  arrow  slumbereth,  forgetful  of  the  deer! 
The  last  canoe  is  rotting  by  the  lake  it  glideth  o'er, 
When  dark-eyed  maidens  sweetly  sang  its  welcome  from  the  shore. 
The  footprints  of  the  hunter  race  from  all  the  hills  have  gone — 
Their  offerings  to  the  Spirit-land  have  left  the  altar-stone — 
The  ashes  of  the  council-fire  have  no  abiding  token — 
The  song  of  war  has  died  away — the  Powwah's  charm  is  broken — 
The  startling  war-whoop  cometh  not  upon  the  loud,  clear  air — 
The  ancient  woods  are  vanishing — the  pale  men  gathered  there. 

"  And  who  is  left  to  mourn  for  this  ? — a  solitary  one 

Whose  life  is  waning  into  death  like  yonder  setting  sun  ! 

A  broken  reed,  a  faded  flower,  that  lingereth  behind, 

To  mourn  above  its  fallen  race,  and  wrestle  with  the  wind  ! 

Lo  !  from  the  Spirit-land  I  hear  the  voices  of  the  blest ; 

The  holy  faces  of  the  loved  are  leaning  from  the  West. 

The  mighty  and  the  beautiful — the  peerless  ones  of  old — 

They  call  me  to  their  pleasant  sky  and  to  their  thrones  of  gold ; 

Ere  the  spoilers'  eye  hath  found  me,  when  there  are  none  to  save — 

Or  the  evil-hearted  pale -face  made  the  free  of  soul  a  slave; 

Ere  the  step  of  air  grow  weary,  or  the  sunny  eye  be  dim, 

The  father  of  my  people  is  calling  me  to  him." 


250  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  AERIAL  OMENS. 

A  LIGHT  is  troubling  Heaven ! — A  strange,  dull  glow 
Is  trembling  like  a  fiery  veil  between 
The  blue  sky  and  the  earth ;  and  the  far  stars 
Glimmer  but  faintly  through  it.     Day  hath  left 
No  traces  of  its  presence,  and  the  blush 
With  which  it  welcomed  the  embrace  of  Night 
Has  faded  from  the  sky's  blue  cheek,  as  fades 
The  blush  of  human  beauty  when  the  tone 
Or  look  which  woke  its  evidence  of  love 
Hath  passed  away  forever.     Wherefore  then 
Burns  the  strange  fire  in  Heaven? — It  is  as  if 
Nature's  last  curse — the  terrible  plague  of  fire, 
Were  working  in  her  elements,  and  the  sky 
Consuming  like  a  vapor. 

Lo — a  change ! 

The  fiery  flashes  sink,  and  all  along 
The  dim  horizon  of  the  fearful  North 
Rests  a  broad  crimson,  like  a  sea  of  blood, 
Untroubled  by  a  wave.     And  lo— above, 
Bendeth  a  luminous  arch  of  pale,  pure  white, 
Clearly  contrasted  with  the  blue  above, 
And  the  dark  red  beneath  it.     Glorious! 
How  like  a  pathway  for  the  sainted  ones — 
The  pure  and  beautiful  intelligences 
Who  minister  in  Heaven,  and  offer  up 
Their  praise  as  incense ;  or,  like  that  which  rose 
Before  the  pilgrim-prophet,  when  the  tread 
Of  the  most  holy  angels  brightened  it, 
And  in  his  dream  the  haunted  sleeper  saw 
The  ascending  and  descending  of  the  blest! 
Another  change.     Strange,  fiery  forms  uprise 
On  the  wide  arch,  and  take  the  throngf  ul  shape 
Of  warriors  gathering  to  the  strife  on  high, 
A  dreadful  marching  of  infernal  shapes, 
Beings  of  fire  with  plumes  of  bloody  red, 
With  banners  flapping  o'er  their  crowded  ranks, 
And  long  swords  quivering  up  against  the  sky  ! 
And  now  they  meet  and  mingle ;  and  the  ear 
Listens  with  painful  earnestness  to  catch 
The  ring  of  cloven  helmets  and  the  groan 
Of  the  down-trodden.     But  there  comes  no  sound, 
Save  a  low,  sullen  rush  upon  the  air, 
Such  as  the  unseen  wings  of  spirits  make, 
Sweeping  the  void  above  us.     All  is  still. 
Yet  falls  each  red  sword  fiercely,  and  the  hoof 
Of  the  wild  steed  is  crushing  on  the  breast 
Of  the  o'erthrown  and  vanquished.     'Tis  a  strange 


THE  AERIAL  OMENS.  251 

And  awful  conflict — an  unearthly  war! 
It  is  as  if  the  dead  had  risen  up 
To  battle  with  each  other — the  stern  strife 
Of  spirits  visible  to  mortal  eyes. 

Steed,  plume,  and  warrior  vanish  one  by  one, 

Wavering  and  changing  to  unshapely  flame ; 

And  now  across  the  red  and  fearful  sky 

A  long  bright.flame  is  trembling,  like  the  sword 

Of  the  great  Angel  at  the  guarded  gate 

Of  Paradise,  when  all  the  sacred  groves 

And  beautiful  flowers  of  Eden-land  blushed  red 

Beneath  its  awful  shadow;  and  the  eye 

Of  the  lone  outcast  quailed  before  its  glare, 

As  from  the  immediate  questioning  of  God. 

And  men  are  gazing  on  that  troubled  sky 
With  most  unwonted  earnestness,  and  fair 
And  beautiful  brows  are  reddening  in  the  light 
Of  that  strange  vision  of  the  upper  air; 
Even  as  the  dwellers  of  Jerusalem, 
The  leaguered  of  the  Eoman,  when  the  sky 
Of  Palestine  was  thronged  with  fiery  shapes, 
And  from  Antonio's  tower  the  mailed  Jew 
Saw  his  own  image  pictured  in  the  air, 
Contending  with  the  heathen ;  and  the  priest 
Beside  the  Temple's  altar  veiled  his  face 
From  that  most  horrid  phantasy,  and  held 
The  censer  of  his  worship  with  a  hand 
Shaken  by  terror's  palsy. 

It  has  passed — 

And  Heaven  again  is  quiet ;  and  its  stars 
Smile  down  serenely.     There  is  not  a  stain 
Upon  its  dream-like  loveliness  of  blue — 
No  token  of  the  fiery  mystery 
Which  made  the  evening  fearful.     But  the  hearts 
Of  those  who  gazed  upon  it,  yet  retained 
The  shadow  of  its  awe— the  chilling  fear 
Of  its  ill-boding  aspect.     It  is  deemed 
A  revelation  of  the  things  to  come — 
Of  war  and  its  calamities — the  storm 
Of  the  pitched  battle,  and  the  midnight  strife 
Of  heathen  inroad — the  devouring  flame, 
The  dripping  tomahawk,  the  naked  knife, 
The  swart  hand  twining  with  the  silken  locks 
Of  the  fair  girl — the  torture,  and  the  bonds 
Of  perilous  captivity  with  those 
Who  know  not  mercy,  ind  with  whom  revenge 
Is  sweeter  than  the  cherished  gift  of  life. 


MEMORIALS. 


LUCY  HOOPER.* 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  them  art  dead — 

That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cherished. 
Has  with  the  summer  roses  perished: 
And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 
An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead — 

The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain: 
The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart — that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 

Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good; 

And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest,   • 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of  them — of  thee  remains  there  naught 

But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast  ? — 
A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought  ? 
No! — Even  my  weak  and  trembling  faith 

Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 

And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 
Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill, 
And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when,  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
I  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine  leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee — 
But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality ! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 

*  Died  at  Brooklyn,  L.  I.,  on  the  ist  of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  twenty-four  years. 

252 


LUCY  HOOPER.  253 

Of  souls  that,  with  their  earthly  mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old — 
Unbodied— like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite — 
Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 
And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No ! — I  have  FRIENDS  in  Spirit  Land — 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came ; 
Their  change — the  holy  morn-light  breaking 
Upon  the  dream-worn  Sleeper,  waking — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 
They've  laid  thee  midst  the  household  graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  beuds  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her  prayer 
The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simple  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O'er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
And  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 
As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  filled  the  vast  machine — 
A  life  "within  the  wheels  "  was  seen. 

Farewell!     A  little  time,  and  we 
Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee  here, 

One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 
As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 

Which  opens  on  eternity. 

Tet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 
All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile ; 


254:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 
•         Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 
Like  moonlight  when  the  sun  has  set — 
A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of  duty, 

Thy  generous  scorn  of  all  things  wrong — 
The  truth,  the  strength,  the  graceful  beautr 

Which  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee ; 
These  green  hills,  where  thy  childhood  roved- 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods, — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake ; 
And  all  thou  loved'st  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


CHANGING. 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 

Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 
God's  great  and  crowning  miracle — 

The  hero  and  the  saint! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,  world-wide,  echo  CHANNING'S  fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 
All  men  shall  canonize. 

By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 
Beneath  his  green  embowering  wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 

The  slopes  lay  green  with  summer  rains, 
The  western  wind  blew  fresh  and  free, 


CHANNING.  255 

And  glimmered  down  the  orchard  lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 

Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 
And  like  his  blessed  Master  knew 

The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 

Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 
And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 

With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  where 

The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 
It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 
And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong — 

The  ills  her  suffering  children  know — 
The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng — 

The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 

O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 

Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole 
Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless, 

The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But,  when  the  generous  Briton  told 

How  hearts  were  answering  to  his  own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  methought,  a  glad  surprise 

Thrill  through  that  frail  and  pain-worn  frame 
And  kindling  in  those  deep,  calm  eyes 

A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human  heart — the  Faith -sown  seeds 

Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt — 

The  Babel  strife  of  tongues  had  ceased, — 

And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain:  with  strength  renewed, 
A,nd  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less  dim. 


256  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 

And  vale  with  Channing's  dying  word  ! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still 
By  that  great  warning  stirred ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads  with  zeal  unfelt  before 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before  him  time-wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 

And,  stretching  o'er  the  sea's  blue  wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yoeman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 
The  Sheffield  grinder,  worn  and  grim, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame, 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of  converse  on  Rhode  Island's  strand, 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  father-land. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 
And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds, 

And  Truth,  at  His  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave  ? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies  ? 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  He  gaTt— 

The  prophet  never  dies  ! 


CHARLES  B.  STORKS. 


257 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  B.  STORRS, 
LATE  PRESIDENT  OP  WESTERN  RESERVE  COLLEGE. 


THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord ! 
With    thy    last    breath    crying — 
"  Onward!" 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling 

The  added  drop  is  given, 
And  the  long  suspended  thunder 

Falls  terribly  from  Heaven, — 
When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 

Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow  consuming  Famine — 

The  Pestilence  and  Sword ! 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth,— 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then  ? 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay -tree  for  a  time. 

But,  where  the  south  wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or,  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines, — 
Where  now  beneath  his  burden 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven, — 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered,  unto  Heaven,^ 


Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  pride  and  lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man  ! 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine, 
The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us — 

Our  Present  Help  was  thine  ! 

Lo — the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep — 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep ! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother ! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The   onward  cheer  and   summons 

OF  FREEDOM'S  VOICE  is  given ! 

Glory  to  God  forever! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scat 
tered 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  O,  brother/ 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  Anthem  of  the  free,. 


258 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


,     LINES 

On  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torry,  Secretary  of  the  Boston  Young  Men's  Anti-Slavery  Society. 


GONE  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine? 

Oh !  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  ? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee  ? — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou  ? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above  ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er    thy     slumbers     fresh     and 
brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek ; 


Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 
Such  as  Hylas  wore — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 
Which  shall  rise  no  more ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine. 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine  * — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swell 
ing 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be  ? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours! 


A  LAMENT. 

1  The  parted  spirit. 


Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ? 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ?  " 


Answereth  not 


33- 


THE  circle  is  broken — one  seat  is  forsaken, — 
One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship  is  shaken — 
One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer  shall  thrill 
With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in  our  ill. 

*  "  O  vine  of  Sibmah !     I  will  weep  for  thee  with  the  weeping  of  Jazer !  "--Jeremiah  xlviiL 


A  LAMENT.  259 

Weep ! — lonely  and  lowly,  are  slumbering  now 
The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of  her  brow, 
Weep  ! — sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen  in  vain 
To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome  again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead !     For  humanity's  claim 
From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever  the  same ; 
The  hope  of  that  World  whose  existence  is  bliss 
May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners  of  this. 

For,  oh!  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit  can  throw 
On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation  below, 
Than  the  pride  of  the  marble — the  pomp  of  the  dead — 
To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears  which  we  shed. 

Oh,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of  her  smile, 
Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feeling  the  while — 
The  eye's  deep  enchantment,  dark,  dream -like,  and  clear, 
In  the  glow  of  its  gladness — the  shade  of  its  tears. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while  over  the  whole 
Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the  sunshine  of  soul, — 
And  the  tones  of  her  -'oice,  like  the  music  which  seems 
Murmured  low  in  our  ears  by  the  Angel  of  dreams! 

But  holier  and  dearer  oar  memories  hold 

Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  precious  than  gold — 

The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity  which  gave 

Fresh  flowers  for  the  bridal,  green  wreaths  for  the  grave  I 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's  claim, 
Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure  and  blame, 
While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her  ear 
Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the  jesting  and  jeer. 

How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beautiful  sleeper  ! 
With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears  for  the  weeper  ! — 
Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether  mournful  or  gay, 
With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing  astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could  sorrow  for  them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure  gem  ; 

And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring  reprove, 

And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tempered  by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting  in  heaven, 
As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight  is  given, 
As  a  glad  dream  of  slumber,  which  wakens  in  bliss, 
She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the  holy  from  this. 


260  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 

[DANIEL  WHEELER,  a  minister  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  who  had  labored  in  the  cause 
of  his  Divine  Master  in  Great  Britain,  Russia,  and  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  died  in  New  York, 
in  the  spring  of  1840,  while  on  a  religious  visit  to  this  country.] 

OH,  dearly  loved 

And  worthy  of  our  love  ! — No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 
In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger  ! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer — 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut  out— 
The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As  if  each  lingering  cloud  of  doubt — 
The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere — 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land  ! 

The  oak  has  fallen  ! 

While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 
May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 
Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A  great  man  in  our  Israel  ? 
Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still, 

Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  still  wet, 

And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop  shell  ! 
Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and  free, 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 

With  winter's  arrowy  keenness  pass  ; 
Or,  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or,  where  the  noon-hour's  fervid  heat 

Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat  ; 

The  same  mysterious  hand  which  gave 

Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 
Tempered  for  thee  the  blasts  which  blew 

Ladoga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo'a  shore, 


DANIEL  WHEELER,  261 

Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 
Hath  given  thee  a  grave  ! 

His  will  be  done, 
Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 

Is  not  as  ours  ! — 'Tis  well  with  thee  ! 
Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 
But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

"  My  Father  careth  still  for  me  !  " 
Called  from  thy  hearth  and  home — from  her, 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 

In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 

Feeble  with  years  and  worn  with  pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 

The  things  which  should  befall  thee  here, 

Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 
In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 

To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith  ! 

Oh,  far  away, 
Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 

On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa  saw 
From  Darien's  mountains,  stretching  far, 
So  strange,  heaven-broad,  and  lone,  that  there 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare 

He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe  ; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 
Amidst  Owhyhee's  hills  of  blue, 

And  Taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee, — 
Worn  sowers  of  Truth's  holy  seed, 
Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 
Were  strengthened  and  refreshed  by  thine, 
For,  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand, 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer — 
Grateful  as  Eschol's  clustered  vine 
To  Israel  in  a  weary  land  ! 

And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 
Of  prayerful  waiting,  hushed  and  deep 
That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Silence  before  Him,  might  renew 

Their  strength  with  Hisunslumbering  power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art  gone, 

That  never  more  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 
Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through  thee  the  Gospel's  glorious  word — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 

Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reserved  for  them 

Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow,  turn 

Many  to  righteousness, — 
May  we  not  think  of  thee,  as  wearing 
That  star-like  crown  of  light,  and  bearing, 
Amidst  Heaven's  white  and  blissful  band, 
The  fadeless  palm-branch  in  thy  hand  ; 

And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 

In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 

Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 

Thanksgiving,  love,  and  praise  forever! 

Farewell ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet  He  who  slumbereth  not  nor  sleepeth 
His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth; 
Still  sent  from  His  creating  hand, 
New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand — 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord ; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more, 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Zion's  broken  walls  restored ! 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of  peace: 
So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 
,       With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon ! 


DANIEL  NEALL.  263 

DANIEL  NEALL. 


FRIEND  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend  of  all ; 

Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost,  when 

The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called  for  men 
To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 
Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 
Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 
Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's  post 
Fronting  the  violence  of  a  maddened  host, 
Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the  waves  are  tossed ! 
Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  questioned  not 

The  faith  of  one  whose  Avalk  and  word  were  right — 
Who  tranquilly  in  Life's  great  task-field  wrought 
And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely  caught 

A  stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of  white : 
Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong,  his  own 
Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Penitence  alone. 

n. 

Such  was  our  friend.     Formed  on  the  good  old  plan, 

A  true  and  brave  and  downright  honest  man ! — 

He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 

Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 

Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Christian  grace ; 

Loathing  pretense,  he  did  with  cheerful  will 

What  others  talked  of  while  their  hands  were  still: 

And,  while  "Lord,  Lord!  "  the  pious  tyrants  cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 

His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 

In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  DOING  GOOD. 

So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 

That,  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its  worth, 

And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked  with  us  on  earth. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SISTER.* 

THINE  is  a  grief,  the  death  of  which  another 

May  never  know ; 
Yet,  o'er  the  waters,  O,  my  stricken  brother  1 

To  thee  I  go. 

*  SOPHIA  STURGE,  sister  of  JOSEPH  STUKGE,  of  Birmingham,  the  President  of  the  British 
Complete  Suffrage  Association,  died  in  the  6th  mo.,  1845.  She  was  the  colleague,  counselor, 
and  ever  ready  helpmate  of  her  brother  in  all  his  vast  designs  of  beneficence.  The  Birmingham 
Pilot  says  of  her  :  "  Never,  perhaps,  were  the  active  and  passive  virtues  of  the  human  character 
more  harmoniously  and  beautifully  blended,  than  \n  this  excellent  woman,." 


264:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  folding 

Thy  hand  in  mine ; 
With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul  upholding 

The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  departed ; 

I  stood  not  by 
When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and  tranquil-hearted 

Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak  condoling 

Must  vainly  fall  : 
The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is  tolling, 

Sounds  over  all! 

I  will  not  mock  thee  with  the  poor  world's  common 

And  heartless  phrase, 
Nor  wrong  the  memory  of  a  sainted  woman 

With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 
Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb ! 

Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart  approveth: 

Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He  loveth, 

Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn  angel 

Hath  evil  wrought: 
Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evangel — 

The  good  die  not! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose  not  wholly 

What  He  hath  given ; 
They  live  on  earth,  iu  thought  and  deed,  as  truly 

As  in  His  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee ;  in  thy  path  of  trial 

She  walketh  yet ; 
Stil  with  the  baptism  of  thy  self-denial 

Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother !     Lo,  the  fields  of  harvest, 

Lie  white  in  view! 
She  lives  and  loves  thee,  and  the  God  thou  serves^, 

To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle ! — England's  toil-worn  peasants 

Thy  call  abide ; 

she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and  holy  presence, 
Shall  glean  beside ! 


GONE.  265 


GONE. 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given ; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young  and  gentle  friend  whose  smile 

Made  brighter  summer  hours, 
Amid  the  f  rpsts  of  autumn  time, 

Has  left  us,  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay ; 
No  shacKow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  around  our  sister's  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed — 

Eternal  as  the  sky ; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her  voice — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 

The  changing  of  her  sphere, 
To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew ; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps  pressed, 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book, 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 

To  which  our  hearts  could  move ; 
The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm ; 

A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light; 
We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 

Once  more  her  sweet  "  Good-night  1" 


266  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 
Her  smile  no  longer  cheers ; 

A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 
Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  His  child. 

Fold  her,  oh  Father !  in  thine  arms, 
And  let  her  henceforth  be 

A  messenger  of  love  between 
Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 
Between  us  and  the  wrong, 

And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 
Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 
Distrusted  all  her  powers, 

May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 
The  well  beloved  of  ours.  . 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  J.  O.  ROCKWELL. 

THE  turf  is  smooth  above  him !  and  this  rain 
Will  moisten  the  rent  roots,  and  summon  back 
The  perishing  life  of  its  green-bladed  grass, 
And  the  crush'd  flower  will  lift  its  head  again 
Smilingly  unto  Heaven,  as  if  it  kept 
No  vigil  with  the  dead. 

Well— it  is  meet 

That  the  green  grass  should  tremble,  and  the  flowers 
Blow  wild  about  his  resting-place.     His  mind 
Was  in  itself  a  flower,  but  half  disclosed — 
A  bud  of  blessed  promise,  which  the  storm 
Visited  rudely,  and  the  passer  by 
Smote  down  in  wantonness. — But  we  may  trust 
That  it  hath  found  a  dwelling,  where  the  sun 
Of  a  more  holy  clime  will  visit  it, 
And  the  pure  dews  of  mercy  will  descend, 
Through  Heaven's  own  atmosphere,  upon  its  head. 

His  form  is  now  before  me,  with  no  trace 
Of  death  in  its  fine  lineaments,  and  there 
Is  a  faint  crimson  on  his  youthful  cheek, 
And  his  free  lip  is  softening  with  the  smile 


THE  UNQUIET  SLEEPER.  267 

Which  in  his  eye  is  kindling.     I  can  feel 

The  parting  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  hear 

His  last  "  God  bless  you  !  " — Strange — that  he  is  there 

Distinct  before  me  like  a  breathing  thing, 

Even  when  I  know  that  he  is  with  the  dead, 

And  that  the  damp  earth  hides  him.     I  would  not 

Think  of  him  otherwise — his  image  lives 

Within  my  memory  as  he  seem'd  before 

The  curse  of  blighted  feeling,  and  the  toil 

And  fever  of  an  uncongenial  strife,  had  left 

Their  traces  on  his  aspect. 

Peace  to  him! 

He  wrestled  nobly  with  the  weariness 
And  trials  of  our  being — smiling  on, 
While  poison  mingled  with  his  springs  of  life 
And  wearing  a  calm  brow,  while  on  his  heart 
Anguish  was  resting  like  a  hand  of  fire — 
Until  at  last  the  agony  of  thought 
Grew  insupportable,  and  madness  came 
Darkly  upon  him, — and  the  suff   er  died! 

Nor  died  he  unlamented !     To  his  grave 
The  beautiful  and  gifted  shall  go  up, 
And  muse  upon  the  sleeper.     And  young  lips 
Shall  murmur  in  the  broken  tones  of  grief — 
His  own  sweet  melodies — and  if  the  ear 
Of  the  freed  spirit  heedeth  aught  beneath 
The  brightness  of  its  new  inheritance, 
It  may  be  joyful  to  the  parted  one 
To  feel  that  Earth  remembers  him  in  love. 


THE  UNQUIET  SLEEPER. 

THE  Hunter  went  forth  with  his  dog  and  gun, 
In  the  earliest  glow  of  the  golden  sun ; — 
The  trees  of  the  forest  bent  over  his  way, 
In  the  changeful  colors  of  Autumn  gay ; 
For  a  frost  had  fallen  the  night  before 
On  the  quiet  greenness  which  Nature  wore. 

A  bitter  frost ! — for  the  night  was  chill, 
And  starry  dark,  and  the  wind  was  still, 
And  so  when  the  sun  looked  out  on  the  hills, 
On  thexstricken  woods  and  the  frosted  rills, 
The  unvaried  green  of  the  landscape  fled, 
And  a  wild,  rich  robe  was  given  instead. 

We  know  not  whither  the  Hunter  went, 
Or  how  the  last  of  his  days  was  spent ; 


268  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

For  the  moon  drew  nigh— but  he  came  not  back, 
Weary  and  faint  from  his  forest  track ; 
And  his  wife  sat  down  to  her  frugal  board, 
Beside  the  empty  seat  of  her  lord. 

And  the  day  passed  on,  and  the  sun  came  down 
To  the  hills  of  the  west,  like  an  angel's  crown, 
The  shadows  lengthened  from  wood  and  hill, 
The  mist  crept  up  from  the  meadow-rill, 
Till  the  broad  sun  sank,  and  the  red  light  rolled 
All  over  the  west,  like  a  wave  of  gold! 

Yet  he  came  not  back — though  the  stars  gave  forth 

Their  wizard  light  to  the  silent  Earth ; 

And  his  wife  looked  out  from  the  lattice  dim 

In  the  earnest  manner  of  fear  for  him ; 

And  his  fair-haired  child  on  the  door-stone  stood 

To  welcome  his  father  back  from  the  wood ! 

He  came  not  back ! — yet  they  found  him  soon, 
In  the  burning  light  of  the  morrow's  noon, 
In  the  fixed  and  visionless  sleep  of  death, 
Where  the  red  leaves  fell  at  the  soft  wind's  breath; 
And  the  dog,  whose  step  in  the  chase  was  fleet, 
Crouched  silent  and  sad  at  the  Hunter's  feet. 

He  slept  in  death ; — but  his  sleep  was  one 

Which  his  neighbors  shuddered  to  look  upon; 

For  his  brow  was  black,  and  his  open  eye 

Was  red  with  the  sign  of  agony : 

And  they  thought,  as  they  gazed  on  his  features  grim, 

That  an  evil  deed  had  been  done  on  him. 

They  buried  him  where  his  fathers  laid, 
By  the  mossy  mounds  in  the  graveyard  shade, 
Yet  whispers  of  doubt  passed  over  the  dead, 
And  beldames  muttered  while  prayers  were  said ; 
And  the  hand  of  the  sexton  shook  as  he  pressed 
The  damp  earth  down  on  the  Hunter's  breast. 

The  season  passed ---and  the  Autumn  rain 
And  the  colored  forests  returned  again  ; 
Twas  the  very  eve  that  the  Hunter  died, 
The  winds  wail'd  over  the  bare  hillside, 
And  the  wreathing  limbs  of  the  forest  shook 
The  red  leaves  over  the  swollen  brook. 

There  came  a  sound  on  the  night-air  then,         ^ 
Like  a  spirit-shriek,  to  the  homes  of  men, 
And  louder  and  snriller  it  rose  again, 
Like  the  fearful  cry  of  the  mad  with  pain ; 


THE  UNQUIET  SLEEPER.  269 

And  trembled  alike  the  timid  and  brave, 

For  they  knew  that  it  came  from  the  Hunter's  grave ! 

And  every  year  when  Autumn  flings 
Its  beautiful  robe  on  created  things, 
When  Piscataqua's  tide  is  turbid  with  rain 
And  Cocheco's  woods  are  yellow  again, 
That  cry  is  heard  from  the  graveyard  earth, 
Like  the  howl  of  a  demon  struggling  forth ! 


SONGS  OF  LABOR 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


DEDICATION. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  atmosphere, 
On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's  autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood, 
The  dry  and  wasting  roots  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the  gay-leafed  maple  wood! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 
Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre-tree ; 
And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway, — 
So  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have  a  charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse ;  * 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common  things  below! 

*  For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to  Emerson,  in  his   inimitable  sonnet  to  the 
Rhodora : — 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

.270 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS.  271 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 

Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes  strong  the  working 
brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now — a  curse  no  more ; 

Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe  with  awe, 
The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore, — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same  law. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDEKS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  East, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin! 

Hark ! — roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axeman's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still, — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up — up ! — in  nobler  toil  than  ours 
No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 


272  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

We  make  of  nature's  giant  powers 
The  slaves  of  human  Art. 

Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 
And  drive  the  treenails  free ; 

Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 
Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 
Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 

The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 
'      May  grate  along  her  keel  ; 

And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 
We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 

Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 
Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave ! 

Oh ! — strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea? 
Look !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves 

In  graceful  beauty  now ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow ! 

God  bless  her !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain. 

Of  commerce  round  the  world ! 

Speed  on  the  ship ! — But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within. 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  suu  and  showers. 


THE  SHOEMAKERS.  273 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea ! 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho!  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner ! 

Rap,  rap !  upon  the  well  worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer! 
Rap,  rap !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  5rou,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goat-herd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 
On  moated  mound  or  heather, 

Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 
Brought  toiling,  men  together  j 


274:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 
Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 

Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 
No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Hans  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours;  where'er  it  falls, 
It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 

On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 
On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 

Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 
Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 

As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 

Rap !  rap  ! — your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 
In  water  cool  and  brimming — 


THE  DROVERS.  2Y5 

"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner; 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  1 


THE  DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  sun 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving! 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy  moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  and  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 


276  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 
In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 

They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 
Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow -close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  good -man ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw -grass  meadows! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest  nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

,    But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 
Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

And  through  you  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We'll  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth. 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving; 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH!  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor! 

Run  up  the  sail  again ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore ! 


278  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 
Of  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 

And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 
Like  black  scuds,  overhead ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  i 
Hurrah !  for  Meccatiua, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf- wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we'll  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain ; 
We'll  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wined  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 
On  the  water  as  on  land, 


THE  HUSKERS.  279 

God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the  west  wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed — 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed  1 


THE  HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal  rain 
Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass  again; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose  broad  and  red, 

At  first  a  rayless  disc  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped ; 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  subdued, 

On  the  corn-fields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured  wood. 

» 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow  light; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the  hill; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they  knew  not  why; 
And  schoolgirls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the  meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn,  looked  westerly  the  patient  weather-cocks; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as  rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's  dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling  as  they  fell 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested ;  the  stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale-green  waves  of  rye; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop  stood. 


280  WHITTIER'S  POEM&. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yellow  ear; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant  fold, 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters ;  and  many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn -floor  its  load  of  husk  and  grain; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest  V  fare  well,  the  day  in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow,  stream  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  Eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shadows  lay ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farmhouse,  and  hamlet  without  name,  r 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in  the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene  below ; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  before, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 

While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its  shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  children  played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking-ballad  sung. 

THE    CORN   SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  1 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn ! 
\ 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 


THE  HUSKERS.  281 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers, 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 

Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June, 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  Autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest  time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk, 

Around  their  costly  board ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod ; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God ! 


282  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 

Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column -like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log- piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 

With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar -frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridge 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 
Of  Katahdin's  sides,— 


THE  LUMBERMEN.  283 

Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm ! 

"Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet- voiced  choir: 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees ! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 


284:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike,  then,  comrades ! — Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 

Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron  planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets, 

Cheerily,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance ! 
Strike ! — With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers. 

Bearing  harvest-home ! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain, — 
Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part ; 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart ! 

O  I  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave; 


THE  LUMBERMEN.  285 

On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 
No  man  writeth  Slave ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing  1 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow,  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee, 

They  chase  the  lessening  light, 
Tirad  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills !  where,  cool  and  sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie ! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.* 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed ;  from  earth  and  skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  oh,  our  Father !  that,  like  him, 
Thy  tender  love  I  see, 

*  Winnipiseogee :  "  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit." 

286 


THE  HILL-TOP.  287 

In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  Thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  Thy  smiling  face ! 


THE  HILL-TOP. 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 

We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 

Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 
At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From  whence,  like  Gizeh's  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud -shades  run. 
Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swamv 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze  warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak  ;  and  weat, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred  crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed. 

And  awful  face  of  stone! 

"A  good  look-off!"  the  driver  spake: 

"  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 


288  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

'Twas  duskish  down  below ;  but  all 
These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 

Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 
He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

*'  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That — though  I  hate  delays — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile — 

(These  women  have  such  ways !) 

"On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 

Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 
A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 

Unrolling  in  the  breeze ; 
Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 

Upraised  and  glorified, — 
I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 

In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  crippled  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live !  " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame : 
"T  dare  say,  sir,  you  may  have  known — " 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day ! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart; 
Kind  voices  cheered,  sweet  human  smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more ; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 
Ah!  human  kindness,  human  love — 

To  few  who  seek  denied — 
Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 

The  whole  round  world  beside  I 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL.  289 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL  FROM  LAKE 
SUPERIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 

And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume, 
Rides  forth,  like  Sinbad  on  his  bird, 

Or  witch  upon  her  broom! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 

Before  me  spreads  the  lake, 
Whose  long  and  solemn -sounding  waves 

Against  the  sunset  break. 

I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 

The  grain  he  has  not  sown ; 
I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 

The  prairie  harvest  mown ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake  and  water-fall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show  ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain ; 
He's  measuring  o'er  the  Pictured  Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 

The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 
The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 

The  Jesuit  chapel  bell ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 

From  Mississippi's  springs; 
And  war-chiefs  with  their  painted  brows, 

And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 

Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 
The,  steamer  smokes  and  raves  ^ 


290  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneer, 

Of  nations  yet  to  be ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 

Is  rounded  into  form! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 

Its  fitting  place  shall  find — 
The  raw  material  of  a  State, 

Its  muscle  and  its  mind ! 

And,  westering  still,  the  star  which  lead* 
The  New  World  in  its  train 

Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 
Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way  ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray ! 

Then,  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 
As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 

I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 
And  Fancy's  airy  ride ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 
Which  Western  trappers  find, 

Thy  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance-sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold ; 

fhy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
Apd  memory's  sunset  gold  ! 

Jn  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 
And  strength  unite  with  love, 

The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 
The  warm  heart  of  the  dove  ! 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings  ! 


MEMORIES.  291 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  uncontined  and  flowing  hair  ; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save  thoughtful  brow  and  ripening  charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bower, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower: 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening  chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  tliee  ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 
Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 
Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than  they  ? 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  has  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee ; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 


292  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than  praise, 

The  schoolboy's  humble  name  has  flown; 
Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm ; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart ! — 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK.* 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 
With  roaring  blast  and  sleety  showers ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 

*  This  legend  is  the  subject  of  a  celebrated  picture  by  Tintoretto,  of  which  Mr.  Rogers  pos 
sesses  the  original  sketch.  The  slave  lies  on  the  ground,  amid  a  crowd  of  spectators,  who  look 
on,  animated  by  all  the  various  emotions  of  sympathy,  rage,  terror;  a  woman,  in  front,  with  a 
child  in  her  arms,  has  always  been  admired  for  the  lifelike  vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  expres 
sion.  The  executioner  holds  up  the  broken  implements  ;  St.  Mark,  with  aheadlong  movement, 
seems  to  rush  down  from  heaven  in  haste  to  save  his  worshiper.  The  dramatic  grouping  in 
this  picture  is  wonderful ;  the  coloring,  in  its  gorgeous  depth  and  harmony,  is,  in  Mr.  Rogers's 
sketch,  finer  than  in  the  picture. — Mrs.Jamieson's  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  A  rt,  vol. 
i.  p.  I3i. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 

To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 
A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 

That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 
In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 

And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 

There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

A  peasant  boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 

The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 
By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 

For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 

Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so  ill  ? 

"  Go,  bind  yon  slave!  and  let  him  learn, 
By  scathe  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

How  ill  they  speed  /who  give  dead  saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord ! " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 

When,  through  the  dungeon's  vaulted  dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 
The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo!  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave  way ; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed  to  freedom  and  the  day ! 

O,  dreaming  monk  !  thy  tale  is  true ; — 
0,  painter!  true  thy  pencil's  art; 


294:, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 
Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's  fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain ; 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his  chain! 

O,  weary  ones!  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 

Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With  sunbright  watches  bending  low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 
Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 

Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer  : 
"Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may  seel" 


TO  MY  SISTER.  295 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREK* 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

O  !  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  ! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth  ! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it : 

Go,  read  its  legend — "TRUST  IN  GOD "• 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


TO  MY  SISTER : 
WITH  A  COPY  OF  "  SITPERNATURALISM  IN  NEW  ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER  ! — while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star -gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  the  weary  cares  and  themes  ! — 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams  ! 

*  Pennant,  in  his  "Voyage  to  the  Hebrides,"  describes  the  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree,  the 
waters  of  which  were  supposed  to  effect  a  miraculous  cure  of  melancholy,  trouble,  and  in 
sanity. 


296  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 

With  wonders  and  romances ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 
Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 

By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches ; 
Again  the  hearth -fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted  floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart ! — the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And,  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 

A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 

A  long,  harsh  strife,  with  strong-willed  men 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning, 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood's  clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning ! 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 
FROM  "MARGARET  SMITH'S  JOURNAL." 

GONE  hath  the  Spring,  with  all  its  flowers, 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and  show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art: " 

"  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 

"  For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen  heart.** 

I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams. 
Of  warmer  sun  aM  softer  rain> 


CALEF  IN  BOSTON,  1692. 

And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 
And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath  gone, 
For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 

Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 
Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow: 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 


CALEF  IN  BOSTON,   1692. 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 
Two  men  met  in  Boston  town — 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone — 
" Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth! 
Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth !  " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then — 
"  God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shalf  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light. 

In  this  faith  I  rest  secure ; 
Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 

Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee!  " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 


298  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 
Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  fe  known 
Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


TO  PIUS  IX.* 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in  vain; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 

Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 
Hider  at  Gaeta — seize  thy  chance ! 

Coward  and  cruel,  come ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy  prayer; 

Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call; 
Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare; 

Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

*  The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy  of  Catholics.  He  has,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
exposed  himself  to  the  censures  of  his  Protestant  brethren,  by  his  strenuous  endeavors  to  pro 
cure  indemnification  for  the  owners  of  the  convent  destroyed  near  Boston.  He  defended  the 
cause  of  the  Irish  patriots  long  before  it  had  become  popular  in  this  country  ;  and  he  was  one 
of  the  first  to  urge  the  most  liberal  aid  to  the  suffering  and  starving  population  of  the  Catholic 
island.  The  severity  of  his  language  finds  its  ample  apology  in  the  reluctant  confession  of  one 
of  the  most  eminent  Romish  priests,  the  eloquent  and  devoted  Father  Ventura. 


TO  PIUS  IX.  299 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb ;  the  orphan's  wail, 
The  mother's  sin  iek,  thou  may'st  not  hear, 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 

The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 
Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's  hate 

From  wall  and  roof  flash  down! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 

Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 
Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 

Thy  mangled  victims  lay  ! 

Let  the  world  murmur ;  let  its  cry 

Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard ; — 
Truth  stands  alone ;  thy  coward  lie 

Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well  ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 

Fit  welcome  give  thee ; — for  her  part, 
Rome,  frowning  o'er  her  new-made  graves, 

Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 

Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling  ; 
No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 

Shall  Term's  maidens  bring ; 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 

The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 
In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 

The  Nero  of  our  time ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest  shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks,  and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 
"Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise — 

Unhonored,  unrevered! 


300  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World !  from  thee 
One  needful  truth  mankind  shall  learn — 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them ;  and  the  long 
Meek  sufferance  of  the  Heavens  doth  fail; 

Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail! 

Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  roused  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin -born  vampires  down ! 


ELLIOTT.* 

\  •  *•» 

BANDS  off!  thou  tythe-fat  plunderer!  play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here ! 
Back,  puny  lordling !  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 

On  these  pale  lips,  the  smothered  thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor — a  shower  of  fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung ; 
God's  curse,  Earth's  wrong,  dumb  Hunger's  ire — 

He  gave  them  all  a  tongue ! 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 
/  j      Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 

And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave  cant  and  craft  their  baptized  bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor ; 
Give  England's  green  and  daisied  grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor ! 

*  Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  intelligence  of  whose  death  has  recently  reached  us,  was  to  the  arti 
sans  of  England  what  Burns  was  to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland.  His  "  Corn-law  Rhymes  "  con 
tributed  not  a  little  to  that  overwhelming  tide  of  popular  opinion  and  feeling  which  resulted  in 
the  repeal  of  the  tax  on  bread.  Well  has  the  eloquent  author  of  "  The  Reforms  and  Reformers 
of  Great  Britain  "  said  of  him  :  "  Not  corn-law  repealers  alone,  but  all  Britons  who  moisten 
their  scanty  bread  with  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  are  largely  indebted  to  his  inspiring  lays  for  the 
mighty  bound  which  the  laboring  mind  of  England  has  taken  in  our  day." 


ICHABOD.  301 

Lay  down  upon  his  Sheafs  green  verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With  fitting  dirge  from  sounding  forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke ! 
Where  whirls  the  stone  its  dizzy  rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 

His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 

Then  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For  him  whose  words  were  dread — 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  foodless  poor  were  fed ! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt ! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 
A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 

A  free  hold  in  his  grave! 


ICHABOD! 

So  fallen !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forever  more ! 

Revile  him  not— the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 

Oh!  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven? 


302  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 
Save  power  remains — 

A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 
Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled: 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS.* 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend  Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic  quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their  hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient  marts, 
And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  norland  mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa  stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled  hands, 

The  North  and  East  between ! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian  fable,  stray 
The  classic  forms  of  yore, 

*  The  reader  of  the  Biography  of  the  late  William  Allen,  the  philanthropic  associate  of  Clark- 
son  and  Romilly,  cannot  fail  to  admire  his  simple  and  beautiful  record  of  a  tour  through  Europe 
in  the  years  1818  and  1819,  in  the  company  of  his  American  friend,  Stephen  Grellett. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS.  303 

And  Beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the  spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart  resounds! 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall  minarets  over  burial-grounds 

Black  with  the  cypress  tree! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of  Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the  Switzer's  home 

Their  vast,  eternal  wall ; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old  time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
Nor  lingered  where  the  snow -locked  mountains  climb 

The  cold  abyss  of  air ! 

But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in  chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the  pains 

And  wants  of  human  kind, 
Scattering  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds  of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or,  pleading  as  Christ's  freemen  only  could 

With  princes  and  with  powers; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and  old, 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned  to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vineyards  blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset  shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmonies 

Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

In  sweet  accordancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run ; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light  above 

The  smile  of  duty  done; 
Sure  stands  the  promise — ever  to  the  meek 

A  heritage  is  given : 
Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted,  seek 

The  righteousness  of  Heaven  1 


304  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

WELL  speed  tliy  mission,  bold  Iconoclast! 
Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  tliou  art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving  heart, 

Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope  made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth,  benind. 

Not  without  reverent  awe  shouldst  tliou  put  by 
The  cypress  branches  and  the  amaranth  blooms, 
Where,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer,  upon  their  tombs 

The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 

God's  witnesses ;  the  voices  of  his  will, 

Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  centuries  still! 

Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking  frown, 

Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's  knee  went  down; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 

Tlie  vassal's  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  due. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 

In  Heaven's  sweet  peace!)  forbade,  of  old,  the  sale 

Of  men  as  slaves,  and  from  the  sacred  pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of  the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil  fate 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred  plate — 
Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the  pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 
"  MAN  is  WORTH  MORE  THAN  TEMPLES  !  "  he  replied 
To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 
And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars  bare, 

And  coining  from  the  Abbey's  golden  hoard 
The  captive's  freedom,  answered  to  the  prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal  for  the  Lord 
Stifled  their  love  of  man — "  An  earthen  dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master  bore : 
Most  miserable  sinners !  do  ye  wish 

More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge  his  dying  poor 
What  your  own  pride  and  not  his  need  requires  ? 

Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He  values  more ; 
Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  his  heart  desires  !  " 
O  faithful  worthies!  resting  far  behind 
In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 
Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  human  kind — 
Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye  groped  blind ; 
Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses  leap 
Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day  like  sheep ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere  of  light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around  by  night; 

With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church  has  read, 
Sceptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its  Head ; 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS.  305 

Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members  less 
Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pulpit's  dress; 
World-moving  zeal,  with  power  to  bless  and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter  need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone  of  creed ; 
Sect  builds  and  worships  where  its  wealth  and  pride 
And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified. 
Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero  still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong  of  will, 
To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier  trod 

The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with  his  bell, 
Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of  God, 

And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of  Jiell! 

Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are  doubtless  well ; 
But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts  of  that  old  time! 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS. 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  oh  Paris!  doth  the  stain 

Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn  rain; 

Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins  through, 

And  Naples  mourns  that  new  Bartholomew, 

When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of  bread, 

At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  license  fed 

The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble  dead ; 

Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy  stately  halls 

The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red  shot  falls, 

And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,  on  the  Danube's  side, 

The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spearmen  ride ; 

Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 

Melts  round  the  cornfields  and  the  vines  below, 

The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball  for  ball, 

Flames  in  the  breach  of  Moultan's  shattered  wall; 

On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the  slain, 

And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks  again. 

"  What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic  cries, 

With  sneering  lip,  and  wise,  world-knowing  eyes, 

"  While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post,  repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war-drum's  beat, 

And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the  church -bell's  chime, 

The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp  keeps  time, 

To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in  arms, 

Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by  scriptural  charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of  blood, 

Staggering  to  take  the  Pledge  of  Brotherhood, 

Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Mathew's  call — 

The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap  Gaul, 


306  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  bulldog  Briton,  yielding  but  with  life, 

The  Yankee  swaggering  with  his  bowie  knife, 

The  Russ,  from  banquets  with  the  vulture  shared 

The  blood  still  dripping  from  his  amber  beard, 

Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance,  to  hear 

The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat  seer; 

Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and  Kings, 

"Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler  lings, 

To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and  Thames, 

For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country  dames! 

No !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weakling's  cant, 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 

Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to  democratic  throngs, 

And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his  hundred  tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 

Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's  roar; 

Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barricade 

Of  '  Olive-leaves '  and  Resolutions  made, 

Spike  guns  with  pointed  scripture-texts,  and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope; 

Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  War 

Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions  draw  ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 

His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  kerchief  wave; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his  song, 

Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the  Strong ; 

Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned  divine, 

O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 

To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall  prove 

Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law  of  Love; 

And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for  Church,  shall  fight, 

And  both  agree,  that  Might  alone  is  Right! " 

Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  oh,  faithful  few, 

Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and  witness  true, 

Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our  evil  time, 

And,  o'er  the  present  wilderness  of  crime, 

Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of  green, 

Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft  streams  between,— 

Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye  tread, 

Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the  cautious  head; 

No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon  our  sphere, 

Without  the  greeting  of  the  sceptic's  sneer ; 

Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  blessings  fall, 

Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 


Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the  strife  shall  cease, 
Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song  of  peace ; 
As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's  lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal  fire, 
Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs  fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart  of  hell. 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY.  30? 

Lend,  once  again,  that  holy  song  a  tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent  sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth ! 
Through  the  mad  discord  send  that  calming  word 
Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genesareth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against  the  Sword! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets  saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming  soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain  shading  palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long  have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of  God — 
Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through  a  long  Sabbath 
day. 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY. 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 
With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled — 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 
Melting  in  heaven's  blue  depths  away- 

O!  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known — 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  thine  own ! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye, 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death ; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 

In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 


308  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
O  Father,  unto  Thee ! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 

In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day ! 


OUR  STATE. 

THE  South -land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavjr  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold ! 

Rough,  bleak  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone. 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  Winter  woods  complain; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  Summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strengtn  of  Pilgrim  Rock ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church  spire  stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 

While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school ! 


ALL'S  WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain ; 


SEED  TIME  AND  HARVEST.  309 

And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven, 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew ! 


SEED  TIME  AND  HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow ; 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain, 
To  swell  the  germ,  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  ? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves; 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed  is  done! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  I 


310  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

TO  A.  K. 
ON  RECEIVING  A  BASKET  of  SEA-MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 

Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool,  still  coral  bowers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual  showers, 
God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep ; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 

With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and  thus 
Forever  teaching  us 

The  lesson  which  the  many-colored  skies, 
The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted  butterflies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay  bird  that  flings 
The  tropic  sunshine  from  its  golden  wings, 
The  brightness  of  the  human  countenance, 
Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  of  a  glance, 
Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

O,  kind  and  generous  friend,  o'er  whom 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And  scattered  clouds  of  noonday  sorrow, 
The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 
An  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come ; 

The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 
The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 
The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 
The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are  good  ! 
Hence,  tracking  sunny  cove  and  reach, 
Where  spent  waves  glimmer  up  the  beach, 
And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed  and  shell 
From  foamy  curve  and  combing  swell, 
No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 
To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft  and  fair 
In  unison  with  his  design, 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere ; 
And  makes  in  every  zone  and  clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
"All  things  beautiful  in  their  time." 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS.  3H 

For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and  power 

He  speaks  to  man ; 

The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder-shower 
His  rainbows  span; 
And,  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in  air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,  no  trace  of  passage  there 

He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon  hour 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers ; 
And,  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces  down 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  wraves  below, 
The  coral-branched  gardens  grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses  show, 
Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues  more  strangely  gay 
Than  forest  leaves  in  autumn's  day ; — 
Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to  say: 
God's  love  and  power  are  one ;  and  they 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry  day, 
Smite  to  restore, 

And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind,  uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and  drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 

Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their  own  gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  prayer ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS. 

[The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by  MAGNA  CHARTA  were  deemed  of  such  importance,  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  that  the  bishops,  twice  a  year,  with  tapers  burning,  and  in  their  pontifi 
cal  robes,  pronounced,  in  the  presence  of  the  king  and  the  representatives  of  the  estates  of  Eng 
land,  the  greater  excommunication  against  the  infringer  of  that  instrument.  The  imposing 
ceremony  took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of  Westminster.  A  copy  of  the  curse,  as  pronounced 
m  1253,  declares  that,  "  By  the  authority  of  Almighty  God,  and  the  blessed  Apostles  and 
Martyrs,  and  all  the  saints  in  heaven,  all  those  who  violate  the  English  liberties,  and  secretly 
or  openly,  by  deed,  word,  or  counsel,  do  make  statutes,  or  observe  them  being  made,  against 
said  liberties,  are  accursed  and  sequestered  from  the  company  of  heaven  and  the  sacraments 
of  the  Holy  Church." 

WILLIAM  PENN,  in  his  admirable  political  pamphlet,  "England's  Present  Interest  Consid 
ered,"  alluding  to  the  curse  of  the  Charter-breakers,  says  :  "  I  am  no  Roman  Catholic,  and  little 
value  their  other  curses  ;  yet  I  declare  I  would  not  for  the  world  incur  this  curse,  as  every  man 
deservedly  doth,  who  offers  violence  to  the  fundamental  freedom  thereby  repeated  and  con 
firmed."] 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight— 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each* cause; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties — 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede — 

"Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure !  " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state— 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS.  313 

Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

Oh !  to  see  them  meanly  cling,  ^ 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought — 
Pitif  uller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be: 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers — 

Not  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in- 
Watching  on  the  hills  of  faith; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim -seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star, 


314:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway- 
Heralding  the  better  day — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem ! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God ! 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 
SUGGESTED  BY  A  DAGUEKREOTYPE  FROM  A  FRENCH  ENGRAVING. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the  tree-tops  flash  and 

glisten,    » 
As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face  to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient  Jewish  song: 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her  graceful  beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vassal's  garb  and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher  nature  true ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  freeman  in  his  heart, 
As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white  man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's  morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of  cane  and  corn; 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes,  never  on  his  back  or  limb ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the  driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful  and  his  eye  is  hard  and  stern ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson,  he  has  never  deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before  their  master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he  silent  evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels  against  a  lot, 

Where  the  brute  survives  the  human  and  man's  upright  form  is  not! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold  on  fold, 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in.  its  hold;— 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE.  315 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the  fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer  and  the  vine  is  in  his  place — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's  manhood  twines, 
And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba  choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel;  and  our  world  of  woe  and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is  shining  in 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding  wheresoe'er  ye  roam, 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making  all  the  world  like  home ; 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is  but  a  part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  universal  heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in  Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil  accursed? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman ! — dear  to  all,  but  doubly  dear 
To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a  brazen  sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is  never  dry! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmosphere  of  hell, 
Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver  seeks  his  bell. 

'Tis  the  fervid  tropic  noontime ;  faint  and  low  the  sea-waves  beat ; 
Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glimmer  of  the  heat, — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms  arrowy  sunbeams  flash 

and  glisten, 
Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave  girl,  and  she  lifts  her  head  to  listen  : — 

'•  "We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer!    Freedom's  hour  is  close  at  hand ! 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat  upon  the  strand ! 

"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain;  I  have  seen  his  swarthy  crew, 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and  color  true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the  night  has  passed  its  noon, 
And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  above  the  sunken  moon ! " 

Oh!  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom!  how  with  joy  and  glad  surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant  beam  her  eyes ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  mother's  hut  is  seen, 
Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee  and  the  lemon  leaves  so  green 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest:  "It  were  wrong  for  thee  to  stay; 
hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his  finger  points  the  way. 


310  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake  of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden,  never  meant  for  souls  like  thine. 

"Go;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last  farewell  is  o'er, 
Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee  from  the  shore. 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick  bed  all  the  day, 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through  the  twilight  gray. 

"Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  freedom,  shared  with  thee, 
Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil,  and  stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my  brain  would  soon  be  wild: 
I  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twilight  for  her  child ! 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun  of  morning  time, 
Through  the  coffee  trees  in  blossom,  and  green  hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave  gang,  toil  the  lover  and  the  maid ; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  forward  on  his  spade? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he :  'tis  the  Hay tien's  sail  he  sees, 
Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  seaward  by  the  breeze! 

But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a  low  voice  call : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is  mightier  than  all. 


THE  CRISIS. 
WRITTEN  ON  LEARNING  THE  TERMS  OF  THE  TREATY  WITH  MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's  drouth  and  sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's  strand; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos  to  Gila,  wild  and  free, 
Flowing  down  from  Neuvo  Leon  to  California's  sea ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East  to  Santa  Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo !    Let  thy  simple  children  weep ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos  keep ; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines ; 
For  lo !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the  winds  bring  down, 

Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Nevada's  crown! 

Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his  back  ; 

By  many  a  lonely  river  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 

On  many  a  wintry  hilltop  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 


THE  CRISIS.  317 

0  countrymen  and  brothers !  that  land  of  lake  and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in  softest  green; 

Swift  through  those  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  un watched,  wild   steeds  that  none  have 

tamed, 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon  never  named ; 
Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Nature's  chemic  powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will:— all  these  ye  say  are  ours! 

Forever  ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  o#  us  the  burden  lies ; 

God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the  skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom,  turn  the  poised  and  trembling  scale  ? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  prevail  ? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry  splendor  waves, 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East,  of  which  the  prophets  told, 
And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age  of  Gold : 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand  up  as  men; 
The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born. 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn! 

Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 

The  soil  of  new -gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of  woe  ? 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  old  world's  cast-off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the  tired  lap  of  Time  ? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven !     Is  this  our  mission  ?    End  in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger,  better  years  ? 
Still,  as  the  old  world  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cutsed  of  God,  through  outer  darkness  borne  ? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in  the  air  ? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing  down ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and  shame ; 

By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the  prophets  came ; 


318  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
O,  my  people!     O,  my  brothers!  let  us  choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way, 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales  with  grain; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train: 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call :  PRAISE  GOD,  FOR  WE  ARE  FREE  I 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again ! 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ilk, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold, — 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die, — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like  one  who  from  some  desert  shore 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 

And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I've  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 

I've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine ; 
And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 

Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine ; 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN.  319 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 
To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her, 

The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

Oh,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strifel 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear; 
The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong, 

And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep, — 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes ! 

Ah  me!  upon  another's  breast 

Those  golden  locks  recline ; 
I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine ! 

•'  O  faithless  Priest  !—O  perjured  knigkt!" 

I  hear  the  Master  cry ; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 
Let  Earth  and  Nature  die ! 

"The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 

And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 
Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 

Crush  down  thy  human  heart!" 

In  vain  !     This  heart  its  grief  must  know- 
Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 

And  falls  beneath  the  self -same  blow, 
The  lover  and  the  priest! 

O  pitying  Mother !  souls  of  light, 

And  saints,  and  martyrs  old ! 
Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 

A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 

And  death  unbind  my  chain, 
Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 

The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


320  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

THE  HOLY  LAND. 
FROM  LAMARTINE. 

I  HAVE  not  felt  o'er  seas  of  sand, 

The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark ; 
Nor  laved  at  Hebron's  fount  my  hand, 

By  Hebron's  palm-trees  cool  and  dark 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 
Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall, 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world -page  remains  unread ; 

How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's  sky, 
How  sounds  the  reverent  pilgrim's  tread, 

How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so  nigh!— 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 

Along  the  sandy  solitudes ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nation's  cries 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The  Christian's  prayer  I  have  not  said, 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire  lay. 

Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 

O,  Jordan !  heard  the  low  lament, 
Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side, 

Which  Israel's  mournful  prophet  sent! 
Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone, 

Where  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of  Kings 
Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 

And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious  strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away ; 
Nor  watched  at  midnight's  solemn  time, 

The  garden  where  His  prayer  and  groan, 
Wrung  by  His  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot, 
Where  in  E[is  Mother's  arms  He  lay, 


MOUNT  AGIOCHOOK. 

Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 

Where  last  His  footsteps  pressed  the  clay; 
Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 

Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where  wide 
His  arms  to  fold  the  world  He  spread, 

And  bowed  His  head  to  bless — and  died  1 


321 


MOUNT  AGIOCHOOK. 

GRAY  searcher  of  the  upper  air ! 

There's  sunshine  on  thy  ancient  walls 
A  crown  upon  thy  forehead  bare — 

A  flashing  on  thy  water-falls — 
A  rainbow  glory  in  the  cloud, 
Upon  thine  awful  summit  bowed, 

Dim  relic  of  the  recent  storm  1 
And  music,  from  the  leafy  shroud 
Which  wraps  in  green  thy  giant  form, 
Mellowed  and  softened  from  above, 

Steals  down  upon  the  listening  ear, 
Sweet  as  the  maiden's  dream  of  love, 

With  soft  tones  melting  on  her  ear. 

The  time  has  been,  gray  mountain,  when 

Thy  shadows  veiled  the  red  man's  home; 
And  over  crag  and  serpent  den, 
And  wild  gorge,  where  the  steps  of  men 

In  chase  or  battle  might  not  come, 
The  mountain  eagle  bore  on  high 

The  emblem  of  the  free  of  soul ; 
And  midway  in  the  fearful  sky 
Sent  back  the  Indian's  battle-cry, 

Or  answered  to  the  thunder's  roll. 

The  wigwam  fires  have  all  burned  out — 

The  moccasin  hath  left  no  track — 
Nor  wolf  nor  wild-deer  roam  about 

The  Saco  or  the  Merrimack. 
And  thou  that  liftest  up  on  high 
Thine  awful  barriers  to  the  sky, 

Art  not  the  haunted  mount  of  old, 
When  on  each  crag  of  blasted  stone 
Some  mountain-spirit  found  a  throne, 

And  shrieked  from  out  the  thick  cloud-fold, 
And  answered  to  the  Thunderer's  cry 
When  rolled  the  cloud  of  tempest  by, 
And  jutting  rock  and  riven  branch 
Went  down  before  the  avalanche. 

The  Father  of  our  people  then 
Upon  thy  awful  summit  trod, 


322  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  the  red  dwellers  of  the  glen 

Bowed  down  before  the  Indian's  God. 

There,  when  His  shadow  veiled  the  sky, 
The  Thunderer's  voice  was  long  and  loud, 

And  the  red  flashes  of  His  eye 
Were  pictured  on  the  o'erhanging  cloud. 

The  Spirit  moveth  there  no  more, 

The  dwellers  of  the  hill  have  gone, 
The  sacred  groves  are  trampled  o'er, 

And  footprints  mar  the  altar-stone. 
The  white  man  climbs  thy  tallest  rock 

And  hangs  him  from  the  mossy  steep, 
Where,  trembling  to  the  cloud-fire's  shock, 
Thy  ancient  prison-walls  unlock, 
And  captive  waters  leap  to  light, 
And  dancing  down  from  height  to  height, 

Pass  onward  to  the  far-off  deep. 

Oh,  sacred  to  the  Indian  seer, 

Gray  altar  of  the  days  of  old ! 
Still  are  thy  rugged  features  dear, 
As  when  unto  my  infant  ear 

The  legends  of  the  past  were  told. 
Tales  of  the  downward  sweeping  flood, 
When  bowed  like  reeds  thy  ancient  wood,— 

Of  armed  hand  and  spectral  form, 
Of  giants  in  their  misty  shroud, 
And  voices  calling  long  and  loud 

In  the  drear  pauses  of  the  storm! 
Farewell!     The  red  man's  face  is  turned 

Toward  another  hunting-ground; 
For  where  the  council-fire  has  burned, 

And  o'er  the  sleeping  warrior's  mound 
Another  fire  is  kindled  now : 
Its  light  is  on  the  white  man's  brow ! 

The  hunter  race  have  passed  away — 
Ay,  vanished  like  the  morning  mist, 
Or  dewdrops  by  the  sunshine  kissed, — 

And  wherefore  should  the  red  man  stay  ? 


METACOM. 

RED  as  the  banner  which  enshrouds 
The  warrior-dead  when  strife  is  done, 

A  broken  mass  of  crimson  clouds 
Hung  over  the  departed  sun. 

The  shadow  of  the  western  hill 

Crept  swiftly  down,  and  darkly  still, 


METACOM.  323 

As  if  a  sullen  wave  of  night 
Were  rushing  on  the  pale  twilight, 
The  forest-openings  grew  more  dim, 

As  glimpses  of  the  arching  blue 

And  waking  stars  came  softly  through 
The  rifts  of  many  a  giant  limb. 
Above  the  wet  and  tangled  swamp 
White  vapors  gathered  thick  and  damp, 
And  through  their  cloudy  curtaining 
Flapped  many  a  brown  and  dusky  wing — • 
Pinions  that  fan  the  moonless  dun, 
But  fold  them  at  the  rising  sun ! 

Beneath  the  closing  veil  of  night, 

And  leafy  bough  and  curling  fog, 
With  his  few  warriors  ranged  in  sight — 
Scarred  relics  of  his  latest  fight — 

Rested  the  fiery  Wampanoag. 
He  leaned  upon  his  loaded  gun, 
Warm  with  its  recent  work  of  death, 
And,  save  the  struggling  of  his  breath 
That,  slow  and  hard,  and  long-suppressed 
Shook  the  damp  folds  around  his  breast, 
An  eye,  that  was  unused  to  scan 
The  sterner  moods  of  that  dark  man, 
Had  deemed  his  tall  and  silent  form 
With  hidden  passion  fierce  and  warm, 
With  that  fixed  eye,  as  still  and  dark 
As  clouds  which  veil  their  lightning-spark— 
That  of  some  forest-champion 
Whom  sudden  death  had  passed  upon — 
A  giant  frozen  into  stone. 
Son  of  the  throned  Sachem, — thou, 

The  sternest  of  the  forest  kings, — 
Shall  the  scorned  pale-one  trample  now, 
Unambushed,  on  thy  mountain's  brow — 
Yea,  drive  his  vile  and  hated  plough 

Among  thy  nation's  holy  things, 
Crushing  the  warrior-skeleton 
In  scorn  beneath  his  armed  heel, 
And  not  a  hand  be  left  to  deal  , 

A  kindred  vengeance  fiercely  back, 
And  cross  in  blood  the  Spoiler's  track? 

He  started, — for  a  sudden  shot 

Came  booming  through  the  forest-trees— 
The  thunder  of  the  fierce  Yengeese : 
It  passed  away,  and  injured  not, 
But,  to  the  Sachem's  brow  it  brought 
The  token  of  his  lion  thought. 
He  stood  erect — his  dark  eye  burned, 
As  if  to  meteor-brightness  turned; 


324:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  o'er  his  forehead  passed  the  frown 
Of  an  archangel  stricken  down, 
Ruined  and'  lost,  yet  chainless  still — 
Weakened  of  power  but  strong  of  will 
It  passed — a  sudden  tremor  came 
Like  ague  o'er  his  giant  frame, — 
It  was  not  terror — he  had  stood 

For  hours,  with  death  in  grim  attendance, 
When  moccasins  grew  stiff  with  blood, 

And  through  the  clearing's  midnight  flame, 
Dark,  as  a  storm,  the  Pequod  came, 

His  red  right  arm  their  strong  dependence— 
When  thrilling  through  the  forest  gloom 
The  onset  cry  of  "  Metacom! " 

Rang  on  the  red  and  smoky  air ! — 
No — it  was  agony  which  passed 
Upon  his  soul — the  strong  man's  last 
And  fearful  struggle  with  despair. 

He  turned  him  to  his  trustiest  one — 
The  old  and  war-tried  Annawon — 
"Brother" — the  favored  warrior  stood 
In  hushed  and  listening  attitude — 
"  This  night  the  Vision-Spirit  hath 
Unrolled  the  scroll  of  fate  before  me ; 
And  ere  the  sunrise  cometh,  Death 
Will  wave  his  dusky  pinion  o'er  me  ! 
Nay,  start  not — well  I  know  thy  faith: 
Thy  weapon  now  may  keep  its  sheath ; 
But  when  the  bodeful  morning  breaks, 
And  the  green  forest  widely  wakes 

Unto  the  roar  of  Yen  geese  thunder, 
Then,  trusted  brother,  be  it  thine 
To  burst  upon  the  foeman's  line 
And  rend  his  serried  strength  asunder. 
Perchance  thyself  and  yet  a  few 
Of  faithful  ones  may  struggle  through, 
And,  rallying  on  the  wooded  plain, 
Offer  up  in  Yengeese  blood 
An  offering  to  the  Indian's  God." 

Another  shot — a  sharp,  quick  yell, 

And  then  the  stifled  groan  of  pain, 
Told  that  another  red  man  fell, — 

And  blazed  a  sudden  light  again 
Across  that  kingly  brow  and  eye, 
Like  lightning  on  a  clouded  sky, — 
And  a  low  growl,  like  that  which  thrills 
The  hunter  of  the  Eastern  hills, 

Burst  through  clenched  teeth  and  rigid  lip — 
And  when  the  Monarch  spoke  again, 
His  deep  voice  shook  beneath  its  rein, 


METACOM.  325 

And  wrath  and  grief  held  fellowship. 
"  Brother!  methought  when  as  but  now 

I  pondered  on  my  nation's  wrong, 
"With  sadness  on  his  shadowy  brow 

My  father's  spirit  passed  along ! 
He  pointed  to  the  far  southwest, 

Where  sunset's  gold  was  growing  dim, 

And  seemed  to  beckon  me  to  him, 
And  to  the  forests  of  the  blest ! — 
My  father  loved  the  Yengeese,  when 
They  were  but  children,  shelterless; 
For  his  great  spirit  at  distress 
Melted  to  woman's  tenderness — 
Nor  was  it  given  him  to  know 

That  children  whom  he  cherished  then 
Would  rise  at  length,  like  armed  men, 
To  work  his  people's  overthrow. 
Yet  thus  it  is ; — the  God  before 

Whose  awful  shrine  the  pale  ones  bow 
Hath  frowned  upon  and  given  o'er 

The  red  man  to  the  stranger  now> — 
A  few  more  moons,  and  there  will  be 
No  gathering  to  the  council-tree ; 
The  scorched  earth,  the  blackened  log, 

The  naked  bones  of  warriors  slain, 

Be  the  sole  relics  which  remain 
Of  the  once  mighty  Wampanoag ! 
The  forests  of  our  hunting-land, 

With  all  their  old  and  solemn  green, 
Will  bow  before  the  Spoiler's  axe, 
The  plough  displace  the  hunter's  tracks, 
And  the  tall  Yengeese  altar  stand 

Where  the  Great  Spirit's  shrine  hath  been. 


"Yet,  brother,  from  this  awful  hour 
The  dying  curse  of  Metacom 
Shall  linger  with  abiding  power 

Upon  the  spoilers  of  my  home. 

The  fearful  veil  of  things  to  come 

By  Kitchtan's  hand  is  lifted  from 
'The  shadows  of  the  embryo  years ; 

And  I  can  see  more  clearly  through 
Than  ever  visioned  Powwow  did, 
For  all  the  future  comes  unbid 

Yet  welcome  to  my  tranced  view, 
As  battle-yell  to  warrior's  ears ! 
From  stream  and  lake  and  hunting-hill 

Our  tribes  may  vanish  like  a  dream, 

And  even  my  dark  curse  may  geem 
Like  idle  winds  when  Heaven  is  still — 

No  bodeful  harbinger  of  ill, 


326  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

But  fiercer  than  the  downright  thunder 
When  yawns  the  mountain-rock  asunder, 
And  riven  pine  and  knotted  oak 
Are  reeling  to  the  fearful  stroke, 

That  curse  shall  work  its  master's  will! 
The  bed  of  yon  blue  mountain  stream 
Shall  pour  a  darker  tide  than  rain — 
The  sea  shall  catch  its  blood-red  stain, 
And  broadly  on  its  banks  shall  gleam 

The  steel  of  those  who  should  be  brothers- 
Yea,  those  whom  once  fond  parent  nursed 
Shall  meet  in  strife,  like  fiends  accursed, 
And  trample  dowTn  the  once  loved  form, 
While  yet  with  breathing  passion  warm, 

As  fiercely  as  they  would  another's! " 

The  morning  star  sat  dimly  on 
The  lighted  eastern  horizon — 
The  deadly  glare  of  levelled  gun 

Came  streaking  through  the  twilight  haze, 

And  naked  to  its  reddest  blaze 
A  hundred  warriors  sprang  in  view : 

One  dark  red  arm  was  tossed  on  high — 
One  giant  shout  came  hoarsely  through 

The  clangor  and  the  charging  cry, 
Just  as  across  the  scattering  gloom, 
Red  as  the  naked  hand  of  Doom, 

The  Yengeese  volley  hurtled  by — 
The  arm — the  voice  of  Metacom ! — 

One  piercing  shriek-  -one  vengeful  yell, 
Sent  like  an  arrow  to  the  sky, 

Told  when  the  hunter-monarch  fell! 


THE  FRATRICIDE. 

In  the  recently  published  "  History  of  Wyoming," — a  valley  rendered  classic  ground  by  the 
poetry  of  Campbell, — in  an  account  of  the  attack  of  Brandt  and  Butler  on  the  settlements  in 
1778,  a  fearful  circumstance  is  mentioned.  A  tory,  who  had  joined  the  Indians  and  British, 
discovered  his  own  brother,  whilst  pursuing  the  Americans,  and,  deaf  to  his  entreaties,  deliber 
ately  presented  his  rifle  and  shot  him  dead  on  the  spot.  The  murderer  fled  to  Canada. 

HE  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  well-known  hill, 
Its  few  gray  oaks  moan'd  over  him  still — 
The  last  of  that  forest  which  cast  the  gloom 
Of  its  shadow  at  eve  o'er  his  childhood's  home; 
And  the  beautiful  valley  beneath  him  lay 
With  its  quivering  leaves,  and  its  streams  at  play, 
And  the  sunshine  over  it  all  the  while 
Like  the  golden  shower  of  the  Eastern  isle. 

He  knew  the  rock  with  its  fingering  vine, 
And  its  gray  top  touch 'd  by  the  slant  sunshine, 


THE  FRATRICIDE.  327 

And  the  delicate  stream  which  crept  beneath 

Soft  as  the  flow  of  an  infant's  breath ; 

And  the  flowers  which  lean'd  to  the  West  wind's  sigh, 

Kissing  each  ripple  which  glided  by; 

And  he  knew  every  valley  and  wooded  swell, 

For  the  visions  of  childhood  are  treasured  well. 

Why  shook  the  old  man  as  his  eye  glanced  down 
That  narrow  ravine  where  the  rude  cliffs  frown, 
With  their  shaggy  brows  and  their  teeth  of  stone, 
And  their  grim  shade  back  from  the  sunlight  thrown? 
What  saw  he  there  save  the  dreary  glen, 
Where  the  shy  fox  crept  from  the  eye  of  men, 
And  the  great  owl  sat  in  the  leafy  limb 
That  the  hateful  sun  might  not  look  on  him  ? 

Fix'd,  glassy,  and  strange  was  that  old  man's  eye, 

As  if  a  spectre  were  stealing  by, 

And  glared  it  still  on  that  narrow  dell 

Where  thicker  and  browner  the  twilight  fell; 

Yet  at  every  sigh  of  the  fitful  wind, 

Or  stirring  of  leaves  in  the  wood  behind, 

His  wild  glance  wander'd  the  landscape  o'er, 

Then  fix'd  on  that  desolate  dell  once  more. 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  of  the  thoughts  which  ran 
Through  the  dizzied  brain  of  that  gray  old  man? 
His  childhood's  home — and  his  father's  toil — 
And  his  sister's  kiss — and  his  mother's  smile — 
And  his  brother's  laughter  and  gamesome  mirth, 
At  the  village  school  and  the  winter  hearth — 
The  beautiful  thoughts  of  his  early  time, 
Ere  his  heart  grew  dark  with  its  later  crime. 

And  darker  and  wilder  his  visions  came 
Of  the  deadly  feud  and  the  midnight  flame, 
Of  the  Indian's  knife  with  its  slaughter  red, 
Of  the  ghastly  forms  of  the  scalpless  dead, 
Of  his  own  fierce  deeds  in  that  fearful  hour 
When  the  terrible  Brandt  was  forth  in  power, — 
And  he  clasp'd  his  hands  o'er  his  burning  eye 
To  shadow  the  vision  which  glided  by. 

It  came  with  the  rush  of  the  battle -storm — 
With  a  brother's  shaken  and  kneeling  form, 
And  his  prayer  for  life  when  a  brother's  arm 
Was  lifted  above  him  for  mortal  harm, 
And  the  fiendish  curse,  and  the  groan  of  death, 
And  the  welling  of  blood,  and  the  gurgling  breath, 
And  the  scalp  torn  off  while  each  nerve  could  feel 
The  wrenching  hand  and  the  jagged  steel ! 


328  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  the  old  man  groan'd — for  he  saw,  again, 
The  mangled  corse  of  his  kinsman  slain, 
As  it  lay  where  his  hand  had  hurl'd  it  then, 
At  the  shadow'd  foot  of  that  fearful  glen ! — 
And  it  rose  erect,  with  the  death-pang  grim, 
And  pointed  its  bloodied  finger  at  him ! — 
And  his  heart  grew  cold — and  the  curse  of  Cain 
Burn'd  like  a  fire  in  the  old  man's  brain. 

Oh,  had  he  not  seen  that  spectre  rise 

On  the  blue  of  the  cold  Canadian  skies  ? — 

From  the  lakes  which  sleep  in  the  ancient  wood, 

It  had  risen  to  whisper  its  tale  of  blood, 

And  follow'd  his  bark  to  the  sombre  shore, 

And  glared  by  night  through  the  wigwam  door; 

And  here — on  his  own  familiar  hill — 

It  rose  on  his  haunted  vision  still  ! 

Whose  corse  was  that  which  the  morrow's  sun, 
Through  the  opening  boughs,  look'd  calmly  on? 
There  where  those  who  bent  o'er  that  rigid  face 
Who  well  in  its  darken'd  lines  might  trace 
The  features  of  him  who,  a  traitor,  fled 
From  a  brother  whose  blood  himself  had  shed, 
And  there— on  the  spot  where  he  strangely  died — 
They  made"  the  grave  of  the  Fratricide ! 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA. 

"  Isabella,  Infanta  of  Parma,  and  consort  of  Joseph  of  Austria,  predicted  her  own  death, 
immediately  after  her  marriage  with  the  Emperor.  Amidst  the  gayety  and  splendor  of  Vienna 
and  Presburg  she  was  reserved  and  melancholy  ;  she  believed  that  Heaven  had  given  her  a 
view  of  the  future,  and  that  her  child,  the  namesake  of  the  great  Maria  Theresa,  would  perish 
with  her.  Her  prediction  was  fulfilled." 

MIDST  the  palace-bowers  of  Hungary,  —  imperial  Presburg's  pride,  — 

With  the  noble-born  and  beautiful  assembled  at  her  side, 

She  stood,  beneath  the  summer  heaven.  —  the  soft  winds  sighing  on, 

Stirring  the  green  and  arching  boughs,  like  dancers  in  the  sun. 

The  beautiful  pomegranate's  gold,  the  snowy  orange-bloom, 

The  lotus  and  the  creeping  vine,  the  rose's  meek  perfume, 

The  willow  crossing  with  its  green  some  statue's  marble  hair,  — 

AH  that  might  charm  th'  exquisite  sense,  or  light  the  soul,  was  there. 


she  —  a  monarch's  treasured  one  —  lean'd  gloomily  apart, 
With  her  dark  eye  tearfully  cast  down  and  a  shadow  on  her  heart. 
Young,  beautiful,  and  dearly  loved,  what  sorrow  hath  she  known  ? 
Are  not  the  hearts  and  swords  of  all  held  sacred  as  her  own  '( 
Is  not  her  lord  the  kingliest  in  battle-field  or  bower  ? 

foremost  in  the  council-hall,  or  at  the  banquet  hour  ? 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA.  32$ 

Is  not  his  love  as  pure  and  deep  as  his  own  Danube's  tide  ? 
And  wherefore  in  her  princely  home  weeps  Isabel,  his  bride  ? 

She  raised  her  jewell'd  hand  and  flung  her  veiling  tresses  back, 

Bathing  its  snowy  tapering  within  their  glossy  black. — 

A  tear  fell  on  the  orange  leaves;  rich  gem  and  mimic  blossom, 

And  fringed  robe  shook  fearfully  upon  her  sighing  bosom : 

"  Smile  on,  smile  on,"  she  murmur'd  low,  "  for  all  is  joy  around, 

Shadow  and  sunshine,  stainless  sky,  soft  airs  and  blossom'd  ground; 

'Tis  meet  the  light  of  heart  should  smile  when  nature's  brow  is  fair, 

And  melody  and  fragrance  meet,  twin  sisters  of  the  air! 

*'  But  ask  not  me  to  share  with  you  the  beauty  of  the  scene — 

The  fountain-fall,  mosaic  walk,  and  tessellated  green ; 

And  point  not  to  the  mild  blue  sky,  or  glorious  summer  sun: 

I  know  how  very  fair  is  all  the  hand  of  God  hath  done — 

The  hills,  the  sky,  the  sunlit  cloud,  the  fountain  leaping  forth, 

The  swaying  trees,  the  scented  flowers,  the  dark  green  robes  of  earth— 

I  love  them  still ;  yet  I  have  learn'd  to  turn  aside  from  all, 

And  never  more  my  heart  must  own  their  sweet  but  fatal  thrall! 

"  And  I  could  love  the  noble  one  whose  mighty  name  I  bear, 
And  closer  to  my  bursting  heart  his  hallo w'd  image  wear; 
And  I  could  watch  our  sweet  young  flower,  unfolding  day  by  day, 
And  taste  of  that  unearthly  bliss  which  mothers  only  may; 
But  no,  I  may  not  cling  to  earth— that  voice  is  in  my  ear, 
That  shadow  lingers  by  my  side — the  death- wail  and  the  bier, 
The  cold  and  starless  night  of  death  where  day  may  never  beam, 
The  silence  and  the  loathsomeness,  the  sleep  which  hath  no  dream! 

"  O  God!  to  leave  this  fair  bright  world,  and,  more  than  all,  to  know 

The  moment  when  the  Spectral  One  shall  deal  his  fearful  blow ; 

To  know  the  day,  the  very  hour ;  to  feel  the  tide  roll  on ; 

To  shudder  at  the  gloom  before,  and  weep  the  sunshine  gone ; 

To  count  the  days,  the  few  short  days,  of  light  and  life  and  breath,— 

Between  me  and  the  noisome  grave — the  voiceless  home  of  death, — 

Alas! — if,  knowing,  feeling  this,  I  murmur  at  my  doom, 

Let  not  thy  frowning,  O  my  God !  lend  darkness  to  the  tomb. 

"Oh,  I  have  borne  my  spirit  up,  and  smiled  amid  the  chill 
Remembrance  of  my  certain  doom,  which  lingers  with  me  still: 
I  would  not  cloud  our  fair  child's  brow,  nor  let  a  teardrop  dim 
The  eye  that  met  my  wedded  lord's,  lest  it  should  sadden  him. 
But  there  are  moments  when  the  gush  of  feeling  hath  its  way ; 
That  hidden  tide  of  unnamed  woe  nor  fear  nor  love  may  stay. 
Smile  on,  smile  on,  light-hearted  ones,  your  sun  of  joy  is  high; 
Smile  on,  and  leave  the  doom'd  of  Heaven  alone  to  weep  and  die." 


A  funeral  chant  was  wailing  through  Vienna's  holy  pile ; 
A  coffin  with  its  gorgeous  pall  was  borne  along  the  aisle; 


330  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  banners  of  a  kingly  race  waved  high  above  the  dead; 

A  mighty  band  of  mourners  came — a  king  was  at  its  head, 

A  youthful  king,  with  mournful  tread  and  dim  and  tearful  eye — 

He  had  not  dream'd  that  one  so  pure  as  his  fair  bride  could  die; 

And  sad  and  wild  above  the  throng  the  funeral  anthem  rung: 

"Mourn  for  the  hope  of  Austria!    Mourn  for  the  loved  and  young!  " 

The  wail  went  up  from  other  lands — the  valleys  of  the  Hun, 

Fair  Parma  with  its  orange  bowers  and  hills  of  vine  and  sun; 

The  lilies  of  imperial  France  droop'd  as  the  sound  went  by, 

The  long  lament  of  cloister'd  Spain  was  mingled  with  the  cry; 

The  dwellers  in  Colorno's  halls,  the  Slowak  at  his  cave, 

The  bow'd  at  the  Escurial,  the  Magyar  sternly  brave — 

All  wept  the  early -stricken  flower,  and  burst  from  every  tongue: 

"  Mourn  for  the  dark-eyed  Isabel  !    Mourn  for  the  loved  and  young  ! 


STANZAS. 

"  Art  thou  beautiful  ? — Live,  then,  in  accordance  with  the  curious  make  and  frame  of  thy 
creation ;  and  let  the  beauty  of  thy  person  teach  thee  to  beautify  thy  mind  with  holiness,  the 
ornament  of  the  beloved  of  God.' — William  Penn. 

BIND  up  thy  tresses,  thou  beautiful  one, 

Of  brown  in  the  shadow  and  gold  in  the  sun ! 

Free  should  their  delicate  lustre  be  thrown 

O'er  a  forehead  more  pure  than  the  Parian  stone — 

Shaming  the  light  of  those  Orient  pearls 

Which  bind  o'er  its  whiteness  thy  soft  wreathing  curls. 

Smile — for  thy  glance  on  the  mirror  is  thrown, 
And  the  face  of  an  angel  is  meeting  thine  own ! 
Beautiful  creature— I  marvel  not 
That  thy  cheek  a  lovelier  tint  hath  caught ; 
And  the  kindling  light  of  thine  eye  hath  told 
Of  a  dearer  wealth  than  the  miser's  gold. 

Away,  away— there  is  danger  here — 
A  terrible  phantom  is  bending  near ; 
Ghastly  and  sunken,  his  rayless  eye 
Scowls  on  thy  loveliness  scornfully — 
With  no  human  look — with  no  human  breath, 
He  stands  beside  thee, — the  haunter,  DEATH! 

Fly!  but,  alas!  he  will  follow  still, 
Like  a  moonlight  shadow,  beyond  thy  will ; 
In  thy  noonday  walk — in  thy  midnight  sleep, 
Close  at  thy  hand  will  that  phantom  keep — 
Still  in  thine  ear  shall  his  whispers  be — 
Woe,  that  such  phantom  should  follow  thee ! 


STANZAS.  331 

In  the  lighted  hall  where  the  dancers  go, 

Like  beautiful  spirits,  to  and  fro; 

When  thy  fair  arms  glance  in  their  stainless  white, 

Like  ivory  bathed  in  still  moonlight; 

And  not  one  star  in  the  holy  sky 

Hath  a  clearer  light  than  thine  own  blue  eye! 

Oh,  then— even  then — he  will  follow  thee, 
As  the  ripple  follows  the  bark  at  sea; 
In  the  soften'd  light — in  the  turning  dance — 
He  will  fix  on  thine  his  dead,  cold  glance — 
The  chill  of  his  breath  on  thy  cheek  shall  linger, 
And  thy  warm  blood  shrink  from  his  icy  finger  1 

And  yet  there  is  hope.     Embrace  it  now, 
While  thy  soul  is  open  as  thy  brow ; 
While  thy  heart  is  fresh — while  its  feelings  still 
Gush  clear  as  the  unsoil'd  mountain-rill — 
And  thy  smiles  are  free  as  the  airs  of  spring, 
Greeting  and  blessing  each  breathing  thing. 

When  the  after  cares  of  thy  life  shall  come, 
When  the  bud  shall  wither  before  its  bloom; 
When  thy  soul  is  sick  of  the  emptiness 
And  changeful  fashion  of  human  bliss; 
And  the  weary  torpor  of  blighted  feeling 
Over  thy  heart  as  ice  is  stealing — 

Then,  when  thy  spirit  is  turn'd  above, 
By  the  mild  rebuke  of  the  Chastener's  love; 
When  the  hope  of  that  joy  in  thy  heart  is  stirred 
Which  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard, — 
THEN  will  that  phantom  of  darkness  be 
Gladness,  and  Promise,  and  Bliss  to  thee. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 

"  It  is  as  awful,  an  arduous  thing  to  root  out  every  affection  for  earthly  things,  so  as  to  live 
only  ict  another  world.  I  am  now  far,  very  far,  from  you  all ;  and  as  often  as  I  look  around 
and  see  the  Indian  scenery,  I  sigh  to  think  of  the  distance  which  separates  us."— Letters  of 
Henry  Martynfrom  India. 

"  SAT,  whose  is  this  fair  picture,  which  the  light 
From  the  unshutter'd  window  rests  upon 
Even  as  a  lingering  halo  ? — Beautiful ! 
The  keen,  fine  eye  of  manhood,  and  a  lip 
Lovely  as  that  of  Hylas,  and  impress'd 
With  the  bright  signet  of  some  brilliant  thought — 
That  broad  expanse  of  forehead,  clear  and  high, 
Mark'd  visibly  with  the  characters  of  mind, 
And  the  free  locks  around  at,  raven  black, 
Luxuriant  and  unsilver'd — who  was  he  ?" 


332  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

A  friend,  a  more  than  brother.     In  the  spring 

And  glory  of  his  being  lie  went  forth 

From  the  embraces  of  devoted  friends, 

From  ease  and  quiet  happiness,  from  more — 

From  the  warm  heart  that  loved  him  with  a  love 

Holier  than  earthly  passion,  and  to  whom 

The  beauty  of  his  spirit  shone  above 

The  charms  of  perishing  nature.     He  went  forth 

Strengthen'd  to  suffer— gifted  to  subdue 

The  might  of  human  passion — to  pass  on 

Quietly  to  the  sacrifice  of  all 

The  lofty  hopes  of  boyhood,  and  to  turn 

The  high  ambition  written  on  that  brow, 

From  its  first  dream  of  power  and  human  fame, 

Unto  a  task  of  seeming  lowliness, — 

Yet  Godlike  in  its  purpose.     He  went  forth 

To  bind  the  broken  spirit — to  pluck  back 

The  heathen  from  the  wheel  of  Juggernaut — 

To  place  the  spiritual  image  of  a  God 

Holy  and  just  and  true,  before  the  eye 

Of  the  dark- minded  Brahmin — and  unseal 

The  holy  pages  of  the  Book  of  Life, 

Fraught  with  sublimer  mysteries  than  all 

The  sacred  tomes  of  Vedas — to  unbind 

The  widow  from  her  sacrifice — and  save 

The  perishing  infant  from  the  worshipp'd  river! 

"  And,  lady,  where  is  he  ?  "     He  slumbers  well 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  Indian  palm. 

There  is  no  stone  above  his  grave.     The  wind, 

Hot  from  the  desert,  as  it  stirs  the  leaves 

Of  neighboring  bananas,  sighs  alone 

Over  his  place  of  slumber. 

"  God  forbid 

That  he  should  die  alone !  " — Nay,  not  alone. 
His  God  was  with  him  in  that  last  dread  hour — 
His  great  arm  underneath  him,  and  His  smile 
Melting  into  a  spirit  full  of  peace. 
And  one  kind  friend,  a  human  friend,  was  near — 
One  whom  his  teachings  and  his  earnest  prayers 
Had  snatch'd  as  from  the  burning.     He  alone 
Felt  the  last  pressure  of  his  failing  hand, 
Caught  the  last  glimpses  of  his  closing  eye, 
And  laid  the  green  turf  over  him  with  tears, 
And  left  him  with  his  God. 

"  And  was  it  well, 

Dear  lady,  that  this  noble  mind  should  cast 
Its  rich  gifts  on  the  waters  ?— That  a  heart 
Full  of  all  gentleness  and  truth  and  love 
Should  wither  on  the  suicidal  shrine 
Of  a  mistaken  duty  ?    If  I  read 


THE  MISSIONARY.  333 

Aright  the  fine  intelligence  which  fills 
That  amplitude  of  brow,  and  gazes  out 
Like  an  indwelling  spirit  from  that  eye, 
He  might  have  borne  him  loftily  among 
The  proudest  of  his  laud,  and  with  a  step 
Unfaltering  ever,  steadfast  and  secure, 
Gone  up  the  paths  of  greatness, — bearing  still 
A  sister  spirit  with  him,  as  some  star, 
Preeminent  in  Heaven,  leads  steadily  up 
A  kindred  watcher,  with  its  fainter  beams 
Baptized  in  its  great  glory.     Was  it  well 
That  all  this  promise  of  the  heart  and  mind 
Should  perish  from  the  earth,  and  leave  no  trace, 
Unfolding  like  the  Cereus  of  the  clime 
Which  hath  its  sepulchre,  but  in  the  night 
Of  pagan  desolation — was  it  well  ?  " 

Thy  will  be  done,  O  Father! — it  was  well. 

What  are  the  honors  of  a  perishing  world 

Grasp'd  by  a  palsied  finger  ? — the  applause 

Of  the  unthoughtful  multitude  which  greets 

The  dull  ear  of  decay  ? — the  wealth  that  loads 

The  bier  with  costly  drapery,  and  shines 

In  tinsel  on  the  coffin,  and  builds  up 

The  cold  substantial  monument  ?     Can  these 

Bear  up  the  sinking  spirit  in  that  hour 

When  heart  and  flesh  are  failing,  and  the  grave 

Is  opening  under  us  ?     Oh,  dearer  then 

The  memory  of  a  kind  deed  done  to  him 

Who  was  our  enemy,  one  grateful  tear 

In  the  meek  eye  of  virtuous  suffering, 

One  smile  call'd  irp  by  unseen  charity 

On  the  wan  cheek  of  hunger,  or  one  prayer 

Breathed  from  the  bosom  of  the  penitent — 

The  stain'd  with  crime  and  outcast,  unto  whom 

Our  mild  rebuke  and  tenderness  of  love 

A  merciful  God  hath  bless'd. 

"But,  lady,  say, 

Did  he  not  sometimes  almost  sink  beneath 
The  burden  of  his  toil,  and  turn  aside 
To  weep  above  his  sacrifice,  and  cast 
A  sorrowing  glance  upon  his  childhood's  home- 
Still  green  in  memory  ?     Clung  not  to  his  heart 
Something  of  earthly  hope  uncrucified, 
Of  earthly  thought  unchasteu'd  ?    Did  he  bring 
Life's  warm  affections  to  the  sacrifice — 
Its  loves,  hopes,  sorrows — and  become  as  one 
Knowing  no  kindred  but  a  perishing  world, 
No  love  but  of  the  sin-endangered  soul, 
No  hope  but  of  the  winning  back  to  life 
Of  the  dead  nations,  and  no  passing  thought 


334:  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Save  of  the  errand  wherewith  he  was  sent 
As  to  a  martyrdom  ?  " 

Nay,  though  the  heart 
Be  consecrated  to  the  holiest  work 
Vouchsafed  to  mortal  effort,  there  will  be 
Ties  of  the  earth  around  it,  and,  through  all 
Its  perilous  devotion,  it  must  keep 
Its  own  humanity.     And  it  is  well. 
Else  why  wept  He,  who  with  our  nature  veil'd 
The  spirit  of  a  God,  o'er  lost  Jerusalem, 
And  the  cold  grave  of  Lazarus  ?    And  why 
In  the  dim  garden  rose  his  earnest  prayer, 
That  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  suffering 
Might  pass,  if  it  were  possible  ? 

My  friend 

Was  of  a  gentle  nature,  and  his  heart 
Gush'd  like  a  river-fountain  of  the  hills, 
Ceaseless  and  lavish,  at  a  kindly  smile, 
A  word  of  welcome,  or  a  tone  of  love. 
Freely  his  letters  to  his  friends  disclosed 
His  yearnings  for  the  quiet  haunts  of  home — 
For  love  and  its  companionship,  and  all 
The  blessings  left  behind  him ;  yet  above 
Its  sorrows  and  its  clouds  his  spirit  rose, 
Tearful  and  yet  triumphant,  taking  hold 
Of  the  eternal  promises  of  God, 
And  steadfast  in  its  faith.     Here  are  some  lines 
Penn'd  in  his  lonely  mission -house,  and  sent 
To  a  dear  friend  of  his  who  even  now 
Lingers  above  them  with  a  mournful  joy. 
Holding  them  well  nigh  sacred — as  a  leaf 
Pluck'd  from  the  record  of  a  breaking  heart: 


AN  EVENING  IN  BURMAH. 

A  night  of  wonder ! — piled  afar 

With  ebon  feet  and  crests  of  snow, 
Like  Himalaya's  peaks,  which  bar 
The  sunset  and  the  sunset's  star 

From  half  the  shadow'd  vale  below, 
Volumed  and  vast  the  dense  clouds  lie, 
And  over  them,  and  down  the  sky, 
Broadly  and  pale  the  lightnings  go. 

Above,  the  pleasant  moon  is  seen, 

Pale  journeyer  to  her  own  loved  West! 
Like  some  bright  spirit  sent  between 
The  earth  and  heaven,  she  seems  to  lean 
Wearily  on  the  cloud  and  rest ; 


THE  MISSIONARY.  3*5 

And  light  from  her  unsullied  brow 
That  gloomy  cloud  is  gathering  now 
Along  each  wreath'd  and  whitening  "?rest. 


And  what  a  strength  of  light  and 
Is  checkering  all  the  earth  below  !  — 

And,  through  the  jungle's  verdant  bi»ld 

Of  tangled  vine  and  wild  reed  made, 

What  blossoms  in  the  moonlight  glow!  — 

The  Indian  rose's  loveliness, 

The  ceiba  with  its  crimson  dress, 
The  myrtle  with  its  bloom  of  snow. 

And  flitting  in  the  fragrant  air, 

Or  nestling  in  the  shadowy  trees, 
A  thousand  bright-hued  birds  are  there  — 
Strange  plumage  quivering,  wild  and  rare, 

With  every  faintly-breathing  breeze; 
And,  wet  with  dew  from  roses  shed, 
The  Bulbul  droops  her  weary  head, 
Forgetful  of  her  melodies. 

Uprising  from  the  orange  leaves 
The  tall  pagoda's  turrets  glow; 
O'er  graceful  shaft  and  fretted  eaves 
Its  verdant  web  the  myrtle  weaves, 

And  hangs  in  flowering  wreaths  below; 
And  where  the  cluster'd  palms  eclipse 
The  moonbeams,  from  its  marble  lips 
The  fountain's  silver  waters  flow. 

Yes,  all  is  lovely  —  earth  and  air  — 
As  aught  beneath  the  sky  may  be: 

And  yet  my  thoughts  are  wandering  where] 

My  native  rocks  lie  bleak  and  bare— 
A  weary  way  beyond  the  sea. 

The  yearning  spirit  is  not  here; 

It  lingers  on  a  spot  more  dear 

Than  India's  brightest  bowers  to  me. 

Me  thinks  I  tread  the  well-known  street  — 
The  tree  my  childhood  loved  is  there, 

Its  bare-worn  roots  are  at  my  feet, 

And  through  its  open  boughs  I  meet 
White  glimpses  of  the  place  of  prayer  — 

And  unforgotten  eyes  again 

Are  glancing  through  the  cottage  pane, 
Than  Asia's  lustrous  eyes  more  fair. 

What  though,  with  every  fitful  gush 
Of  night-wind,  spicy  odors  come  ; 


336  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  hues  of  beauty  glow  and  flush 
From  matted  vine  and  wild  rose-bush ; 

And  music's  sweetest,  faintest  hum 
Steals  through  the  moonlight,  as  in  dreams, - 
Afar  from  all  my  spirit  seems 

Amid  the  dearer  scenes  of  HOME  ! 

A  holy  name— the  name  of  home! — 

Yet  where,  O  wandering  heart,  is  thine  ? 
Here  where  the  dusky  heathen  come 
To  bow  before  the  deaf  and  dumb, 

Dead  idols  of  their  own  design, 
Where  deep  in  Ganges'  worshipp'd  tide 
The  infant  sinks — and  on  its  side 
The  widow's  funeral  altars  shine! 

Here,  where  'mid  light  and  song  and  flowers 

The  priceless  soul  in  ruin  lies — 
Lost — dead  to  all  those  better  powers 
Which  link  a  fallen  world  like  ours 

To  God's  own  holy  Paradise ; 
Where  open  sin  and  hideous  crime 
Are  like  the  foliage  of  their  clime— 
The  unshorn  growth  of  centuries! 

Turn,  then,  my  heart — thy  home  is  here; 

No  other  now  remains  for  thee : — 
The  smile  of  love,  and  friendship's  tear, 
The  tones  that  melted  on  thine  ear, 

The  mutual  thrill  of  sympathy, 
The  welcome  of  the  household  band, 
The  pressure  of  the  lip  and  hand, 

Thou  mayest  not  hear,  nor  feel,  nor  see. 

God  of  my  spirit ! — Thou,  alone, 

Who  watchest  o'er  my  pillowed  head, 
Whose  ear  is  open  to  the  moan 
And  sorrowing  of  thy  child,  hast  known 

The  grief  which  at  my  heart  has  fed, — 
The  struggle  of  my  soul  to  rise 
Above  its  earth-born  sympathies, — 
The  tears  of  many  a  sleepless  bed  1 

Oh,  be  Thine  arm,  as  it  hath  been, 

In  every  test  of  heart  and  faith — 
The  Tempter's  doubt — the  wiles  of  men — 
The  heathen's  scoff — the  bosom  sin — 

A  helper  and  a  stay  beneath, 
A  strength  in  weakness  'mid  the  strife 
And  anguish  of  my  wasting  life — 
My  solace  and  my  hope  in  death  J 


MASSACHUSETTS.  337 


MASSACHUSETTS. 

Written  on  hearing  that  the  Resolutions  of  the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts  on  the  subject 
of  Slavery,  presented  by  Hon.  C.  CUSHING  to  the  House  of  Representatives  of  the  United 
States,  have  been  laid  on  the  table  unread  and  unreferred,  under  the  infamous  rule  of  "  PAT- 
TON'S  RESOLUTION." 

AND  have  they  spurn'd  thy  word, 

Thou  of  the  old  THIRTEEN  ! 
Whose  soil,  where  Freedom's  blood  first  pour'd 

Hath  yet  a  darker  green  ? 
Tread  the  weak  Southron's  pride  and  lust 
Thy  name  and  councils  in  the  dust  ? 

And  have  they  closed  thy  mouth, 

And  fix'd  the  padlock  fast  ? 
Slave  of  the  mean  and  tyrant  South ! 

Is  this  thy  fate  at  last  ? 
Old  Massachusetts !  can  it  be 
That  thus  thy  sons  must  speak  of  thee  ? 

Call  from  the  Capitol 

Thy  chosen  ones  again — 
Unmeet  for  them  the  base  control 

Of  Slavery's  curbing  rein! 
Unmeet  for  necks  like  theirs  to  feel 
The  chafing  of  the  despot's  heel! 

Call  back  to  Quincy's  shade 

That  steadfast  son  of  thine ; 
Go— if  thy  homage  must  be  paid 

To  Slavery's  pagod-shrine, 
Seek  out  some  meaner  offering  than 
The  free-born  soul  of  that  old  man. 

Call  that  true  spirit  back, 

So  eloquent  and  young ; 
In  his  own  vale  of  Merrimack 

No  chains  are  on  his  tongue  ! 
Better  to  breathe  its  cold,  keen  air, 
Thau  wear  the  Southron's  shackle  there. 

Ay,  let  them  hasten  home, 

And  render  up  their  trust; 
Through  them  the  Pilgrim-state  is  dumb, 

Her  proud  lip  in  the  dust! 
Her  counsels  and  her  gentlest  word 
Of  warning  spurn'd  aside,  unheard ! 

Let  them  come  back,  and  shake 
The  base  dust  from  their  feet; 


338  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  with  their  tale  of  outrage  wake 

The  free  hearts  whom  they  meet ; 
And  show  before  indignant  men 
The  scars  where  Slavery's  chain  has  been. 

Back  from  the  Capitol — 

It  is  no  place  for  thee ! 
Beneath  the  arch  of  Heaven's  blue  wall 

Thy  voice  may  still  be  free ! 
What  power  shall  chain  thy  spirit  there, 
In  God's  free  sun  and  freer  air  ? 

A  voice  is  calling  thee, 

From  all  the  martyr-graves 

Of  those  stern  men,  in  death  made  free, 
Who  could  not  live  as  slaves. 

The  slumberings  of  thy  honor'd  dead 

Are  for  thy  sake  disquieted ! 

The  curse  of  Slavery  comes 

Still  nearer,  day  by  day ; 
Shall  thy  pure  altars  and  thy  homes 

Become  the  Spoiler's  prey  ? 
Shall  the  dull  tread  of  fetter'd  slaves 
Sound  o'er  thy  old  and  holy  graves  ? 

Pride  of  the  old  THIRTEEN  ! 

That  curse  may  yet  be  stay'd — 
Stand  thou,  in  Freedom's  strength,  between 

The  living  and  the  dead ; 
Stand  forth,  for  God  and*Liberty 
In  one  strong  effort  worthy  thee ! 

Once  more  let  Faneuil  Hall 
By  freemen's  feet  be  trod, 

And  give  the  echoes  of  its  wall 
Once  more  to  Freedom's  God ! 

And  in  the  midst,  unseen,  shall  stand 

The  mighty  fathers  of  thy  land. 

Thy  gather'd  sons  shall  feel 

The  soul  of  Adams  near, 
And  Otis  with  his  fiery  zeal. 

And  Warren's  onward  cheer ; 
And  heart  to  heart  shall  thrill  as  when 
They  moved  and  spake  as  living  men. 

Fling,  from  thy  Capitol, 

Thy  banner  to  the  light, 
And,  o'er  thy  Charter's  sacred  scroll, 

For  Freedom  and  the  Right, 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY.  339 

Breathe  once  again  thy  vows,  unbroken — 
Speak  once  again  as  thou  hast  spoken. 

On  thy  bleak  hills,  speak  out ! 

A  WORLD  thy  words  shall  hear ; 
And  they  who  listen  round  about, 

In  friendship,  or  in  fear, 
Shall  know  thee  still,  when  sorest  tried, 
"Unshaken  and  unterrified !  "  * 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS   SHIPLEY. 

of  tl«  Pennsylvania  Abolition  Society,  who  died  on  the   ijth  of  the  gth  month 
i3i6,  a  devoted  Chrstian  and  Philanthropist. 


to  the  Heavenly  Father's  rest  ! 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blowing! 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Shiloah's  waters  softly  flowing! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves! 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad  ! 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  —  not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed  —  our  sighs  are  given: 

"Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 
Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ? 

Fiuish'd  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 

In  Christian  firmness  unto  death: 

And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When  Autumn's  sun  is  downward  going, 

The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing! 

But  woe  for  us!  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less  lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

*  "  Massachusetts  has  held  her  way  right  onward,  unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrified."  —  Speech 
of  C.  Cushing  in  the  House  of  Representatives  of  the  United  States,  1836. 


340  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keeping ! 
Oh !  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man ! 
Oh !  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepare  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

Oh!  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,  spurn'd,  yet  uncomplaining — 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted  slave! 
Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 

Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  are  burning, 
The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 

Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning! 

O  loved  of  thousands !  to  thy  grave, 

Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore  thee! 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er  thee — 
And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quicken'd  its  dying  grass  again ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy ! 

Oh !  for  the  death  the  righteous  die ! 

And  end,  like  Autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining ; 
As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven ! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going ! 


A  SUMMONS. 

Lines  written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions  in  the  House  of  Representatives, 
and  the  passage  of  Calhoun's  "  Bill  of  Abominations  "  to  a  second  reading,  in  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States. 

Now,  by  our  fathers'  ashes !  where's  the  spirit 

Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone  ? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 

Their  names  alone  ? 


A  SUMMONS.  341 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quench'd  within  us  ? 

Stoops  the  proud  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low, 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  tan  win  us 
To  silence  now  ? 

No.     When  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time  ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 
SILENCE  is  CRIME  ! 

What!  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Rights  all  our  own  V    Jn  madness  shall  we  barter, 
For  treacherous  peace,  the  FREEDOM  Nature  gave  us, 
God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  seek  the  free  to  fetter  ? 
Here  Lynch  law  light  its  horrid  fires  on  high  ? 
And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skill'd  abettor, 
Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallow'd  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 

Both  man  and  God  ? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way, 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 
Day  after  day  ? 

Oh,  no ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  mountains— 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 
And  clear,  cold  sky — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges — from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 
Round  rock  and  cliff — 

From  the  free  fire-side  of  her  unbought  farmer — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel — 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the  hammer, 
Rings  the  red  steel — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 
A  PEOPLE'S  VOICE  ! 


342  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Startling  and  stern!  the  Northern  winds  shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awrakc  to  hear  it 
Within  her  grave. 

Oh,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bondman  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 
Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth !    The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 
Bless  us  the  while. 

Oh,  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wrong  d  captive,  bleeding,  crush'd,  and  lowly, 
Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  peril'd  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho!  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 
The  fire  awake! 

Prayer-strengthen'd  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  heavenly  Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  RIGHT! 


THE  EXILE'S  DEPARTURE.* 

FOND  scenes,  which  delighted  my  youthful  existence, 

With  feelings  of  sorrow  I  bid  ye  adieu — 
A  lasting  adieu !  for  now,  dim  in  the  distance, 

The  shores  of  Hibernia  recede  from  my  view. 
Farewell  to  the  cliffs,  tempest-beaten  and  gray, 

Which  guard  the  lov'd  shores  ofrmy  own  native  land; 
Farewell  to  the  village  and  sail-shadow'd  bay, 

The  forest-crown'd  hill  and  the  water-wash'd  strand. 

I've  fought  for  my  country — I've  braved  all  the  dangers 

That  throng  round  the  path  of  the  warrior  in  strife ; 
I  now  must  depart  to  a  nation  of  strangers, 

And  pass  in  seclusion  the  remnant  of  life ; 
Far,  far,  from  the  friends  to  my  bosom  most  dear, 

With  none  to  support  me  in  peril  and  pain, 
And  none  but  the  stranger  to  drop  the  sad  tear, 

On  the  grave  where  the  heart-broken  Exile  is  lain. 

*  The  first  of  Whittier's  poems,  ever  printed  in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  June  8,  1826. 


THE  DEITY. 

Friends  of  my  youth!  T  must  leave  you  forever, 

And  hasten  to  dwell  in  a  region  unknown: — 
Yet  time  cannot  change,  nor  the  broad  ocean  sever, 

Hearts  firmly  united  and  tried  as  our  own. 
Ah,  no!  though  I  wander,  all  sad  and  forlorn, 

In  a  far  distant  land,  yet  shall  memory  trace, 
When  far  o'er  the  ocean's  white  surges  I'm  borne, 

The  scenes  of  past  pleasures,— my  own  native  place. 

Farewell,  shores  of  Erin,  green  land  of  my  fathers — 

Once  more,  and  forever,  a  mournful  adieu ! 
For  round  thy  dim  headlands  the  ocean-mist  gathers, 

And  shrouds  the  fair  isle  I  no  longer  can  view. 
I  go — but  wherever  my  footsteps  I  bend, 

For  freedom  and  peace  to  my  own  native  isle, 
And  contentment  and  joy  to  each  warm-hearted  friend, 

Shall  be  the  heart's  prayer  of  the  lonely  Exile  1 


343 


THE  DEITY.* 

i  Kings xix.  it. 

THE  prophet  stood 

On  the  dark  mount,  and  saw  the  tempest  cloud 
Pour  the  fierce  whirlwind  from  its  dark  reservoir 
Of  congregated  gloom.     The  mountain  oak, 
Torn  from  the  earth,  heav'd  high  its  roots  where  once 
Its  branches  wav'd.     The  fir-tree's  shapely  form, 
Smcte  by  the  tempest,  lash'd  the  mountain's  side. 
— Yet,  calm  in  conscious  purity,  the  seer 
Beheld  the  scene  of  desolation — for 
Th'  Eternal  Spirit  mov'd  not  in  the  storm! 

The  tempest  ceas'd  ! — the  cavern'd  earthquake  burst 
Forth  from  its  prison,  and  the  mountain  rock'd 
E'en  to  its  base :  the  topmost  crags  were  thrown, 
With  fearful  crashing,  down  its  shuddering  sides. 
— Unaw'd  the  prophet  saw  and  heard —  he  felt 
Not  in  the  earthquake  mov'd  the  God  of  Heaven  ! 

The  murmurs  died  away  ! — and  from  the  height 
(Rent  by  the  storm,  and  shattered  by  the  shock), 
Rose  far  and  clear  a  pyramid  of  flame, 
Mighty  and  vast ! — the  startled  mountain  deer 
Shrunk  from  its  glare  and  cower'd  within  the  shade, 
The  wild  fowl  shriek'd  ! — Yet,  even  then,  the  seer 
Un trembling  stood,  and  mark'd  the  fearful  glow — 
For  Israel's  God  came  not  within  the  flame ! 

*  Whittier's  second  poem,  printed  in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  June  22,  1826. 


344  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  fiery  beacon  sunk  ! — a  still  small  voice 
Now  caught  the  prophet's  ear.     Its  awful  tones, 
Unlike  to  human  sounds,  at  once  conveyed 
Deep  awe  and  reverence  to  his  pious  heart. 
Then  bow'd  the  holy  man  !  his  face  he  veil'd 
Within  his  mantle,  and  in  meekness  owned 
The  presence  of  his  God — discern 'd  not  in 
The  storm,  the  earthquake,  or  the  mighty  flame, 
But  in  the  still  small  voice  ! 


BALLADS. 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of  its  ancient  fishing  town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and  its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a  pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah  !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the  ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy  grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer  sea  I  blend 

A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger  Mather  penned, 

In  that  quaint  Magnolia   Christi,  with  all  strange  and  marvellous 

things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual  life  of  old, 

Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence  ;  outward,  mean  and  coarse 

and  cold  ; 

Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and  vulgar  clay, 
Golden  threads  of  romance  weaving  in  a  web  of  hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past ;  but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life,  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  behind  steal  in  ; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fire-side,  and  the  legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man  owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Covenanter  knew, 
When   with  pious    chisel  wandering  Scotland's  moorland  graveyards 

through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part  the  blackberry  vines, 
Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  head-stones,  and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 

Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles 

ran, 
The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann  j 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN.  345 

On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  palisade 

And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken   coast-line,  white  with  breakers  stretching 

north, — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged  capes,  with  bush  and 

tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and  gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by  dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets  in  their  hands; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch  was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together, — talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold  ; 
Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises, — signs  and  wonders  manifold  ; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morning  clouds ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depth  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer — blooms  of  warmer  latitudes; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia  blossoms  star  the  twilight  of  the  pines  ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky  tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of  evil  near ; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim  of  gun  ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of  mortals  run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from  the  midnight  wood 

they  came, — 
Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  unharmed,  its  voljeyed 

flame; 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came  ;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky  mass,  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"  Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "  thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded  wall  about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant  wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless  shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phantoms  fled  ; 
Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted  slowly  down  the  bay  \ 


316  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain  ;  "  never  mortal  foes  were  there 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and  Power  of  the  Air  ! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons  ;  skill  and  prowess  naught  avail ! 
They  who  do  the  devil's  service,  wear  their  master's  coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again  a  warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round  the  dusky  hall ; 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they  longed  for  break  of 

day  ; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible  :  "  Let  us  cease  from  man,  and  pray  ! " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and  hearts  of  all, — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  !     Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round  the  block-house  at  Cape 
Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the  solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecaying  truth, 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  the  darkness  undefined  ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children  ;  and  no  answer  from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white  wings  downward 
fly; 

But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the  spirits  of  the  night ! 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  summer  wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife  and  children  eight, 
Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the  shallop  "  Watch  and  Wait." 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer-morn, 

With  the  newly-planted  orchards  dropping  their  fruits  first-born, 

And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands  amid  a  sea  of  corn. 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the  tided  creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and  walnuts  green  ; — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land  his  eyes  had  never  seen* 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY.  347 

Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty  led, 

Arid  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the  living  bread 

To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the  rocks  of  Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land-breeze  died, 
The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights  denied, 
And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophesied  ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were  rocks,  and  wood,  and 

sand  : 

Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder  in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  arid  what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled  round  him,  weeping 

sore  : 

"  Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ  is  walking  on  before 
To  the  pleasant,  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall  be  no  more." 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain  drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror  far  and  wide  ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail  and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp  and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  A  very 's  prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild  waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as  it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was  cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause  of  wave  and  wind : 
"  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger  just  behind  ; 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ransomed  find  ! 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise  of  thy  word  ! — 
Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears  have  heard  ! — 
Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through  the  grace  of  Christ,  our 
Lord! 

'•  In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my  every  sin, 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  household  and  my  kin  ! 
*  Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and  let  me  enter  in  ! " 

When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song,  all  the  listening  heavens  draw 

near, 

And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal,  hear 
How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music  in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last  request ; 

As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet  hymn  upward 

pressed, 
And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its  rest. 


348 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbuiy  the  notes  of  prayer  were  read  ; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearth-stone,  the  living  mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the  squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  recall, 

When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the  Rock  of  Avery's  Fall  1 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When     cellar-bins    are    closely 

stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their 

load, 

And     the    old    swallow-haunted 

barns — 
Brown-gabled,  long  and  full  of 

seams 

Through  which  the  moted  sun 
light  streams, 

And    winds  blow  freshly  in,  to 

shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted 

cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay-mow's  scented 

locks — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened 

stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley 

sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their 

eaves. 

r  On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 
With  many  an  autumn  thresh 
ing  worn, 

Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked 
corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and 

maids. 
Beneath  a  moon,  that  large  and 

low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 


They  took  their  places ;  some  by 

chance, 

And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their 

choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between    the    shadow    of    the 

mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the 

great  elm  boughs  ! — 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun -em 
browned, 

On  girlhood  with  its  solid 
curves 

Of  healthful  strength  and  pain 
less  nerves ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs 

that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his 

howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard 

fowl  ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers 

sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire 

moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their 

shores ; 

And  tales,   whose  merry  license 

shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon 

thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane  1 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


349 


But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was 

mute 

That  river-valley  ever  heard, 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of 

bird ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 
And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow 

fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 
Who  knew  that  none  would  con 
descend 

To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child 
a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their 
round, 

Since  curious  thousands  throng 
ed  to  see 

Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of 

age, 

That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its 
prayers !          i 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing 

child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother 

die, 
Dreamed     of     the    daughter's 

agony. 

They  went  to  their  homes  that 

day, 

As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch 

had  died  ! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies, — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  de 
nies  ! 

Forgive    thy    creature    when  he 

takes, 
For  the  all-perfect    love    thou 

art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 


Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  ! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's 
grave 

Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth 
stone, 

And  wrestled  with  her  fate 
alone ; 

With    love,   and  anger,  and  de 
spair, 
The     phantoms     of    disordered 

sense, 

The  awful  doubts  of  Provi 
dence  ! 

The  schoolboys  jeered  her  as  they 

passed, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house 

of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her 

there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring 

door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved 

charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's 

harm ; — 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and 
lame, 

Who,  daily  by  the  old  arm 
chair, 

Folded  her  withered  hands  in 
prayer;— 

Who    turned,   in  Salem's  dreary 

jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible,  o'er  and 

o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read 

no  more ! 

Sore  tired  and  pained,  the  poor  girl 

kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her 

way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet 

the  day. 


350 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And  still  her  weary  wheel  went 

round 

Day  after  day,  with  no  relief  ; 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for 

grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits  ; 
Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and 

hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than    her 

tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's 
shame. 

She  answered    not    with   railing 

words, 
But  drew  her  apron    o'er   her 

face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided   from   the 

place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 
Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled 

gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady 

friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had 

made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 


He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,   starting,    with  an  angry 

frown 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs 

down. 


"Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  stern 
ly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or 

jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child  ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 


"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows— 
not  I. 

"I  know  who  swore  her  life 
away  ; 

And,  as  God  lives,  I'd  not  con 
demn 

An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The    broadest    lands    in    all    the 

town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to 

awe. 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word 

was  law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his 

face, 

But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed  ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or   dairy- 
pan  ; 

But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a 
man  ! " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely   home, 
Sat  by    the    window's    narrow 

pane, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver 

rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 
Made  music   such  as  childhood 

knew  ; 

The  door-yard  tree  was  whis 
pered  through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long 

ago  ; 
And  through  the  willow  boughs 

below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and 

light, 
The    hills   rolled    off    into    the 

night. 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


351 


Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mock 
ing  so 

The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded 
not. 

She  strove  ,to  drown  her  sense  of 

wrong, 

And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
[-    To    teach    her    bitter    heart  to 

pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in 

faith, 

Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die  ! 

"Oh,  take  me  from  the  scornful 

eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel 

speech 
And   mocking  finger  may   not 

reach ! 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's 

name  : 
A  daughter's  right   I  dare   not 

crave 

To     weep    above     her    unblest 
grave  ! 

"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

"  Oh,    God  !  have    mercy    on  thy 

child, 
Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak 

and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all !  " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 
And  murmuring  wind  and  wave 

became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her 

name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her  ?  Had  he 

sent 
His  angel  down  ?    In  flesh  and 

blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 


He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 
"  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall 

be  ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff 

at  me. 

"  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden 

well ; 

And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay. 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with 

gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never 

find 
His  heart  less  warm  than  when 

she  smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of 

joy, 

As,  folded  in  his  strong  em 
brace, 

She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's 
face. 

"Oh,   truest   friend  of  all!"  she 

said, 
"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly 

thought, 
And   make   me   worthy   of  my 

lot  !  " 

He    led    her    through    his    dewy 

fields, 
To  where  the  swinging  lanterns 

glowed, 
And    through     the     doors    the 

huskers  showed. 


"Good  friends  and   neighbors  I" 

Esek  said, 

"  I'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 


She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and 

all; 

The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless   from  her  inno 
cence. 


352 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more 

alone  ; 
You   know   what  Esek  Harden 

is;— 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or 

his." 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be 

sung, 

That  ever  made  the  old  heart 
young  ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a 
home  ; 

And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter 
burn, 

As  all  the  household  joys  re 
turn  ! 

Oh,  pleasantly  the  harvest  moon, 
Between    the    shadow    of    the 

mows, 
Looked   on   them   through   the 

great  elm  boughs ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is 
well !  " 


THE   PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL 

SEWALL. 

1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy 

meets, 
For   the   thoughts  and  things  of 

to-day  are  hid, 
And  through  the  vail  of  a  closed 

lid 

The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again  : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and 

knee. 
Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful 

air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened 

hair, 


Walks  the  Judge  of  the  Great  As« 
size, 

Samuel  Sevvall,  the  good  and  wise. 

His  face  with  lines  of  firmness 
wrought, 

He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  un- 
bought, 

Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and 
changes  not ; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  never 
theless 

With  the  grace  of  Christian  gen 
tleness, 

The  face  that  a  child  would  climb 
to  kiss ! 

True,  and  tender,  and  brave,  and 
just, 

That  man  might  honor  and  wo 
man  trust ! 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like    a    penitent    hymn    of    the 

Psalmist  old, 
Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man 

life-long  kept 
With    a     haunting    sorrow    that 

never  slept, 
As    the     circling     year    brought 

round  the  time 
Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of 

crime, 
When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the 

witchcraft  courts, 
With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Hale's 

Reports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both, 

the  word 
That  gave  the  witch's  neck  to  the 

cord, 
And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that 

pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's 

breast ! 
All   the  day  long,  from  dawn  to 

dawn, 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain 

drawn  ; 
No   foot    on    his    silent  threshold 

trod , 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that 

of  God. 

As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  thQ 
with  charms, 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 


353 


Of  penitent   tears,    and   prayers, 

and  psalms, 
And,   with   precious  proofs  from 

the  sacred  word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of 

the  Lord, 
His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust 

renewed 
That    the    sin    of    his    ignorance 

sorely  rued, 
Might    be    washed    away  in    the 

mingled  flood 
Of  his  human  sorrow  and  Christ's 

dear  blood  I 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified. 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain 
side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er 

it  glide  ! 

Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age 

outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of 

man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father 

gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to 

save, 
Dared    not    brand   his   brother  a 

slave  ! 
"  Who  doth  such  wrong  !  "  he  was 

wont  to  say, 
In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving 

way, 
"  Flings    up    to    Heaven    a  hand 

grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon 

his  head  !  " 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  con 
trast 

That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 

And  the  cunning  trickster  and 
knave  of  courts 

Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth 
distorts, — 

Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the 
strong, 

Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness 
wrong  ; 


Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the 
wronged  and  weak 

Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ; 

Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 

Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God  ; 

For  whose  dabbled  ermine  respect 
were  waste, 

Reverence  folly,  and  awe  mis 
placed  ; 

Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to 
seek 

As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syr 
ian  Sheik  ! 

Oh  !  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes 
and  sins. 

Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he 
spins  ! 

To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early 
day,— 

To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn 
and  say : 

"  Praise  and  thanks,  for  an  honest 
man  ! — 

Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan  !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet 

day, 
The    hills     of    Newbury    rolling 

away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season 

gay, 
Dreamily     blending    in    autumn 

mist 

Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and   low,  with  dwarf  trees 

crowned, 
Plum  Island    lies,   like    a    whale 

aground, 
A   stone's    toss  over  the  narrow 

sound. 

Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 

The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended 
bow  ; 

A  silver  arrow  from  out  them 
sprung, 

I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung ; 

And,  round  and  round,  over  val 
ley  and  hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads 
will, 

Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a 
mill; 


354 


And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and 
gabled  eaves. 

Through  green  elm  arches  and 
maple  leaves, — 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that 
can 

Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of 
man, — 

Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and 
stone  - 

Life  and  Death  have  come  and 
gone! 

There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace 
show, 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling 
low, 

The  dresser  glitters  with  polished 
wares, 

The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot 
worn  stairs ; 

And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows 
the  crack 

By  the  earthquake  made  a  cen 
tury  back. 

Up  from  their  midst  springs  the 
village  spire 

With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the 
sun  afire  ; 

Beyond  our  orchards  and  planting 
lands, 

And  great  salt  marshes  and  glim 
mering  sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the 
coast-lines  run. 

The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and 
sun  ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the 

past  and  old, 
I  hear  the   tales   of  my    boyhood 

told; 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of 

early  days 

Flit  dimly  by  in  the  vailing  haze, 
With   measured    movement    and 

rhythmic  chime 
Weaving  like  shuttles,  my  web  of 

rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and 

good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides 

stood, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 
(A 


never     measured 


poet    who 

rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared 

time), 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age, 

looked  down, 
With  his   bo\Thood's  love,   on  his 

native  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills 

and  plains, 

His  burden   of  prophecy  yet  re 
mains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave, 

and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musing 

mind  : — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to 
guard  the  coast 

As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its 
post ; 

As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt 
the  deep 

Of  Merrimac  river,  or  sturgeon 
leap; 

As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 

Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane 
Pond  swim  ; 

As  long  as  annual  sea-fowl  know 

Their  time  to  come  and  their  time 
to  go; 

As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 

The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Tur 
key  Hill ; 

As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from 
the  side 

Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marisheswide, 

And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea 
tide; 

As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon 
shall  search 

The  fields  below  from  his  white- 
oak  perch, 

When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe 
and  shorn 

And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the 
standing  corn  ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow 
old, 

Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  dot 
ing  hold, 

And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn, 
forget, 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 


355 


And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to 

set ; — 
So   long  shall  Christians   here  be 

born , 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet 

corn  ! — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath 

of  frost, 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,    husked    by'    Death    in    the 

Planter's  sight, 
Be  sown    again  in    the  fields  of 

light ! 

The    Island    still    is  purple  with 

plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 
The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild 

fowl  feeds 
On    hill-side  berries  and  marish 

seeds, — 

All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  au 
tumn  rain 
The    good    man's    vision    returns 

again  ! 

And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners 

man 
May  rind  some  grain  as  of  old  he 

found 
In  the  human  corn-field  ripe  and 

sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign 

to  own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers 

sown ! 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S    RIDE. 

OP  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of 

time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed   Calendar's   horse  of 

brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was 

sped 


Was    Iresori's,   out  from   Marble- 
head  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his 

hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and 

carried-  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marble- 
head  1 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like    a  rained-on 

fowl, 
Feathered    and    ruffled    in  every 

part, 

Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong    of    muscle,    and    glib    of 

tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky 

lane, 

Shouting   and   singing  the  shrill 
refrain  : 

"Here's    Flud    Oirson,   fur 

his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd     an'     futherr'd    an' 

corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble- 
'ead  1 " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on 

hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such    as 

chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief    and    loose  of 

hair, 
With    conch-shells    blowing  and 

fish-horns'  twang, 
Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang  : 
"  Here's  Flud    Oirson,   fur 

his  horrd  hort, 
Torr'd     an'     futherr'd     an1 

corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble- 
'ead !  " 

Small    pity  on    him  !— He  sailed 

away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur 

Bay,— 


356 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Sailed     away     from     a     sinking 

wreck, 
With  his  own  tovvn's-people  on  her 

deck  ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to 

him. 
Back     he     answered,    "Sink    or 

swim  ! 

Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog 
and  rain  ! 

Old  Floyd   Ireson,    for   his 

hard  heart, 
Tarred  arid  feathered    and 

carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marble- 
head  1 


Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That     wreck    shall    lie    forever- 
more, 

Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marble- 
head 
Over    the     moaning     and    rainy 

sea, — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might 

not  be  ! 

What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea- 
birds  say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed 
away  ? — 

Old    Floyd    Ireson,    for  his 

hard  heart, 
Tarred  and   feathered  and 

carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marble- 
head ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 

Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung 
wide; 

Sharp-tongued spinsters,  old  wives 
gray, 

Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 

Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple- 
bound, 

Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 

Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and 
cane, 

And  cracked  with  curses  the 
hoarse  refrain : 


"  Here's  Flud   Oirson,    fur 
his  horrd  horrt, 

Torr'd     an'     futherr'd     an' 

corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble- 
'ead  !  " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom      c*      orchard     and     lilac 

showed. 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky 

so  blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like    an    Indian    idol  glum  and 

trim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to 

hear 

Of  voices  shouting  far  and  near  : 
"  Here's    Flud    Oirson,   fur 

his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd     an'     futherr'd    an' 

corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble- 
'ead  !  " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !  "  at  last  he 

cried, — 

"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes 

the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives 

within  ? 

Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And   hear  a  cry   from  a  reeling 

deck! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,— I  only 

dread 

The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of 
the  dead  !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ire'son,   for 

his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered   and 

carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  o'  Marble- 
head  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost 

at  sea 
Said,    "  God  has  touched   him — 

why  should  we  ?  " 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her 

only  son, 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 


357 


"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let 

him  run  !  " 
So   with  soft  relenting  and  rude 

excuse, 
Half  scorn,    half  pity,    they  -cut 

him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him 

in, 


And     left     him    alone    with    his 
shame  and  sin. 

Poor   Floyd    Ireson,  for  his 

hard  heart. 
Tarred    and  feathered  and 

carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marble- 
head  1 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 

[A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old  Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the 
rural  districts  of  New  England.  On  the  death  of  a  member  of  the  family,  the  bees 
were  at  once  informed  of  the  event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in  mourning.  This 
ceremony  was  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from  leaving  their 
hives  and  seeking  a  new  home.  ] 


HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the 

hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took  ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old 

wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the 
shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate 

red-barred, 
And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  hrown  length,  and 

the  cattle-yard, 

And    the    white    horns  tossing 
above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  bee-hives  ranged  in 

the  sun  ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers, 

weed-o'errim, 

Pansy    and    daffodil,   rose   and 
pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise 

goes, 

Heavy  and  slow  ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the 

same  sun  glows, 
And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a 
year  ago. 

There's    the    same   sweet  clover- 
smell  in  the  breeze  ; 
And  the  June  sun  warm 


Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the 

trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside 
farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I     brushed     off    the     burs,    and 

smoothed  my  hair, 
And    cooled  at  the    brook-side 
my  brow  and  throat. 

Since  we    parted,  a   month    had 

passed, — 
To  love,  a  year  ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked 

at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the 
well -sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now — the  slant 
wise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  win 
dow-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under 
the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before, — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine 

by  the  door, — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives 
of  bees. 


358 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Before  them,  under   the   garden 

wall. 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore- 
girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred 
of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  sum 
mer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the 

bees  of  one 

Gone  on    the    journey    we  all 
must  go  I 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary 

weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her    blind    old    grandsire 


The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age 
away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the 

doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore- 
girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and 
in. 

And  the  song'she  was  singing  ever 

since 

In  my  ears  sounds  on  : — 
"Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,   fly 

not  hence  ! 

Mistress     Mary     is    dead     and 
gone  I " 


THE  SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  num 
bered, 
And  another  half-way  told, 


Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 
Broke    for    them     the     virgin 
mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 
Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  sum 
mer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tal- 

lant ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With    thy     eyes     brim     full 

laughter, 
And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 


of 


Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and 

fiddle, 
Delved    by    day    and    sang  by 

night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light, — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 
With    the    solemn     march     of 
Mear. 

When    the   box-tree,  white  with 

blossoms, 
Made  the  sweet  May  woodlands 

glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad. 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shore 
ward, 

With  their  silver-sided  haul, 
Midst    the     shouts     of     dripping 

fishers, 
He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  buskers, 
Love  stole   in   at   Labor's   side, 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 


THE  SYCAMORES. 


359 


Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke- 
wake, 

And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 
Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 

And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
"Pleasant     seemed     his     simple 

tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  leg 
ends, 

And    the    mountain    myths    of 
Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 
Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 
Played  all  night  to  ghosts    of 

kings ; 
Of  the    brown    dwarfs,   and  the 

fairies 

Dancing    in      their     moorland 
rings ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 

"Hush!"    he'd    say,    "the  tipsy 

fairies  ! 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink  !  " 

Merry-faced,     with     spade     and 

"  fiddle, 
Singing    through     the    ancient 

town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  iiis  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ! 

Green    memorials    of    the    glee- 
man  ! 

Linking  still  the  river  shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sun 
set, 

Stand     Hugh    TaUanfs    syca 
mores  I 


When  the  Father  of  his  Country 
Through  the  north-land  riding 

came, 
And  the  roofs  were  starred  with 

banners, 

And     the     steeples     rang     ac 
claim, — 

When   each    war-scarred    Conti 
nental, 
Leaving     smithy,      mill,     and 

farm, 

Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  wel 
come, 

And    shot    off  his    old  king's- 
arm, — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Pres 
ence 

Down  the  thronged  and  shout 
ing  street ; 

Village  girls,  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering   flowers   around   his 
feet. 

Midway,   where  the   plane-tree's 

shadow 

Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew  : 
On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 
Cool    and  soft  the  west  wind 
blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming       round      the      little 
town, — 

6 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 
To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales, 

Winding  down  from  wooded  head 
lands, 
Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweep 
ing 

Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 
"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 

In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade ; 


360 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And    that    head,    so    bare    and 

stately, 

Vanished   down  the  depths  of 
shade. 

Ever    since,  in   town   and   farm 
house, 

Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow ; 
Thrice    hath    passed    the  human 

harvest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 
Through   the   changes,  change 
less  stand  ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft  ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,    glides     the     pleasure 
craft. 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded,- 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart    to    heart    beats 

faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 
On  the  open  hill-side  wrought, 

Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches. 
Songs     his     German     masters 
taught. 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  float 
ing 

Round  his  rosy  ample  face  ; 
Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 

Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

AH  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy, 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,    still   green,    and    tall,    and 

stately, 

On  the  river's  winding  shores, 
Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand     Hugh     Tallant's    syca 
mores, 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE 
OF  NEW  BURY. 

"Concerning  y«  Amphisbaena, 
as  soon  as  I  received  your  com 
mands,  I  made  diligent  inquiry : 
*  *  *  he  assures  me  yl  had 
really  two  heads,  one  at  each 
end ;  two  mouths,  two  stings 
or  tongues." — REV.  CHRISTOPHER 
TOPPAN  to  COTTON  MATHER. 


FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime. 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters 

dire. 

Born  of  water,  and  air.  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the 

mud 
And    ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion 

flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with 

rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad 

age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury 

town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes 

down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush 

and  brake, 
The    Arnphisbsena,     the     Double 

Snake ! 
Thou    who    makest    the  tale  thy 

mirth, 
Consider  that   strip  of  Christian 

earth 
On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless 

sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 
Half-redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 
Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark, 

and  old, 
Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves 

the  dew 
When  Time  was  young,  and  the 

world  was  new, 
And  wove   its  shadows  with  sun 

and  rnoon, 
Ere    the    stones   of   Cheops  were 

squared  and  hewn  ; 
Think  of  the  sea's  dlvQad,  monotonQ, 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  v?  NEWBURY. 


3C1 


Of  the  mournful   wail   from  the 

pine- wood  blown, 
Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that 

lit  the  North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quak 
ing  earth, 
And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian 

told, 
Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth 

grew  cold,  * 

And   he  shrank  from  the  tawny 

wizard's  boasts, 
And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed 

full  of  ghosts, 
And  above,  below,  and  on  every 

side, 

The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  veri 
fied  ;— 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now 

thine  own, 
To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named 

nor  known, 
How    laxer  muscle    and    weaker 

nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might 

serve ; 
And   own  to  thyself  the  wonder 

more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and 

not  a  score ! 


Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown 

fen, 
Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's 

den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Writ 
ten  Rock, 
Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show  ; 
Only  the   fact  that   he  lived,  we 

know, 

And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
tn  a  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly 

shed. 
For  he  carried  a  head  where  his 

tail  should  be, 
And    the    two,  of    course,   could 

never  agree, 
But  wriggled  about  with  main  and 

might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the 

right ; 


Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and 

that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was 

at. 

\A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking 

so  near ! — 
Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the 

fear  ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might 

say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary 

way, 

Between    the    meetings  on  Sab 
bath-day  ! 
How  urchins,  searching  at  day's 

decline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or 

kine, 

The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whirr  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the 

sport, 

In  berry-time  of  the  younger  sort, 
As     over     pastures    blackberry- 
twined 
Reuben      and      Dorothy     lagged 

behind 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of 

harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's 

arm ; 
And    how    the    spark,   who    was 

forced  to  stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the 

break  of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond 

delay  ' 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it 
rolled. 

The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the 
baby's  cry  ; 

And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  min 
ister's  eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 

Cotton    Mather     came    galloping 

down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears 

set  wide, 


362 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his 

side ; 
Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow 

pool 
Of    his    brains    for    the    lore    he 

learned  at  school, 
To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a 

streak 
Of  Latin,   and  there    another  of 

Greek : 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the 

notes  he  took, 

Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Won 
der-Book  ? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to 

kill. 
If  the  snake  does  not,   the  tale 

runs  still 
In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave 

Hill. 
And  still,  whenever  husband  and 

wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily 

strife, 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug 

and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage- 
chain, 
The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing 

shake 
Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look  at  the 

Double  Snake  ! 
One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbeena  is  living  still !  " 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 
1675. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick 
and  stone, 

These  huge  mill-monsters  over 
grown  : 

Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 

Where,  moved  like  living  shut 
tles,  dwell 

The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell  ; 

Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's 
track 

The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents 
back; 


And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its   rocky 

wall  ; 

And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 
On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua  ! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and 

dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing 

cut 
From  the  walled  shadows  round  it 

shut ; 
Each  with  his  farm-house  builded 

rude, 
By  English  yeoman  squared  and 

hewed, 

And  the  grim,  Hankered  block 
house  bound 

With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So  haply,  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  vail  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 
The  figures  of  my  border  song  : 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The  white  man  and  the  red  man 

stood, 

With  words  of  peace  and  brother 
hood  ; 

When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught 

wet, 
And,   puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace 

pipe's  smoke 
Through  the  gray  beard  of  Wal- 

dron  broke, 
And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant 

plea 

For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate  ! 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide  ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say  ! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 


363 


"Wampum    beads    and    birchen 

strands 

Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 
Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Meiiewree,  our  little  child. 

"Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and 

old, 

He  was  lying  still  and  cold  ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call ! 

"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the 

day  ; 

Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"In    the     third   night    watch    I 

heard, 

Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang -the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see  : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam 

light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"  '  All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning     blazed    and    thunder 

rang; 

And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the 

sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear, — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be, — 


"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away  ; 
Flowers  bloomed  round  me,  birds 

sang  glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"  There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From   the   warm,    red  springs  of 

life  ; 

On  the  funeral  hemlock  trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 

"  Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear  ! 
Squando   speaks,  who  laughs  at 

fear : 

Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again  !  " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,    with    quick,    troubled 

sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own  : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue/ 


364: 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


"  Yet,  for  her  who  waits  at  home 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee  ! 

"  Mishanock,  my  little  star  ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar  ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  ! 

'  What !  "  quoth  Waldron,  "  leave 

a  child 

Christian-born  to  heathens  wild  ? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand  !  " 

"  Hear  me,  white  man  !  "  Squando 

cried  ; 

"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ?  " 

Slowly,  sadly,  half-afraid, 
Half-regret  full)',  the  maid 
Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and 

race,— 
Turned  from  Squando's  pleading 

face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through    the    pine-trees    wound 
away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the  young  child 

gazed. 
"God    preserve    her!"    Waldron 

said  ; 
'"Satan     hath      bewitched      the 

maid ! " 


YEARS  went  and  came.    At  close 

of  day 

Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing     from     her     loose-locked 

head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 


Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 

Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"  '  Chip  ! '  went  the  squirrel  on  the 

wall. 

After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the   hemlocks    grew  so 

dark 

That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away  ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay  ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again  ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stopped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung. 
Lo  !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed    the    roof    the    sunshine 

through, 

Into  space  the  walls  outgrew  ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west  wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  the  chain, 
Dropped  the    years  of  care  and 
pain. 


MY  PLAYMATE. 


3G5 


From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and 
floods. 

Well,  oh,  painful  minister  1 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not 

her, 

If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross . 

When,   at    night,   the   Book  was 

read, 

And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame. 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo  !  another  name  was  given  : 
"  Father,  give  the  Indian  rest ! 
Bless  him  !  for  his  love  has  blest !  " 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth 

hill, 

Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 
The   blossoms   in   the   sweet  May 

wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day, 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,   more  to  me  than  birds  or 

flowers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home, 
And  took   with  her  the  laughing 

spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful 

boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 


She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May  : 
The  constant  years  told  o:er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May 

morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,   writh  noiseless  feet,  the 
round 

Of  uneventful  years  ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives    where  all    the  golden 
year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There   haply    with   her    jewelled 

hands 

She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 
No  more  the  homespun  lap  where 
in 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 


The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the 

brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And    still    the    May-day    flowers 

make  sweet 
The  woods  of  Folly  mill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth 

hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  : 
Does  she  remember  mine? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles 

build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 


366 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


That  other  hands  with  nuts  are 

filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and 
fern 


A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there   in   spring  the  veeries 

sing 
The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the    pines  of    Ramoth 

wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea, — 
The     moaning     of     the    sea    of 

change 
Between  myself  and  thee  ! 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE. 

IN  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia's  mountains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's  silver  fountains 

Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 
His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 

And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with  gums  to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  all  Naples  thrills  with  mute  thanksgiving, 

The  court  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dead  monster  so  abhorred  while  living 

In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that  feigning  : 

By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky's  sad  raining, 

Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed  ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 

Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 
Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to  his  neighbor 

The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  immortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 
No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heavenly  portals 

To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tearful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark  by-places 

And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE.  367 

The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 

The  vagrant  of  the  street, 
The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games  of  battle 

The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  outward  draping, 

All  swelled  the  long  lament 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble,  shaping 

His  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and  splendor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 
A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true,  and  tender, 

Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old  steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The  murmurous  woe  of  kindreds,  tongues,  and  peoples 

Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein's  birchen-belted  meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calm 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shadows 

Of  Occidental  palms ; 

From  the  loocked  roadsteads  of  the  Bothnian  peasants, 

And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where  war's  worn  victims  saw  his  gentle  presence 

Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  build  the  old  waste-places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  England's  daisies 

The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful  example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit  sighing 

As  from  its  prison  cell, 
Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  crying 

Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  persuasion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occasion 

Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that  intermingle, 
In  the  same  channel  ran : 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kept  single 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 

He  joined  to  courage  strong, 
And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God's  creatures 

With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender  as  woman  :  manliness  and  meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That  they  who  judged  him  by  this  strength  or  weakness 

Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal  seemed  nourished 

By  failure  and  by  fall'; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he  cherished, 

And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests  :  his  greatness  and  his  sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife  ; 
And  deatli  has  moulded  into  calm  completeness, 

The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song-birds  warble, 

His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of  marble 

To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are  ringing  ; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vail, 
Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swinging 

Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and  beauty, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  above, — 
The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 

Transfigured  into  love ! 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK. 

WITH     ITS     FRONTISPIECE,    ARY     SCHEFFER'S     "  CHRISTUS     CONSOLATOR,' 
AMERICANIZED  BY  THE  OMISSION  OF  THE  BLACK  MAN. 

O,  ARY  SCHEFFER  !  when  beneath  thine  eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh  from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear  Lord's  love, 

No  dream  hadst  thou  that  Christian  hands  would  tear 

Therefrom  the  token  of  his  equal  care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth  a  lie  ! 

The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles  fall  away 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK.  369 

In  his  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed  smoothly  out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 
To  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to  pray 
Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sabbath  day  I 
Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying  books 

Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushions";  I,  for  one, 

Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee.  to  the  sun, 
Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetan  brooks, 

Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple-floor. 

No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before, 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 

Than  that  which  through  the  quaint-carved  Gothic  door 
Looks  forth,— a  Church  without  humanity  ! 

Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and  wrong, — 

The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetish  of  the  strong, 
The  Eternal  Fullness  meted,  clipped,  and  shorn, 
The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn, 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  his  kindred  flesh, 
And,  in  his  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh  ! 
Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 

Where  sweeps  the  storm  Alechan's  steppes  along, 
His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  wearying  Buddha  with  his  prayers  to  make 
The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's  sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise  to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the  while  ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges,  rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue  alone  ; 
That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than  selfish  prayers, 
And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unction  move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives  of  truth  and  love. 
Alas,  the  Church  ! — The  reverend  head  of  Jay, 

Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered  hair, 

Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her  prayer  ; 
And  brave  young  Tyng,  too  early  called  away, 

Troubles  the  Haman  of  her  courts  no  more 

Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  th'  Assyrian's  door  ; 

And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but  dead 

As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the  grain  is  shed, 

And  holy  hymns  from  which  the  life  devout 

Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  well-nigh  gone  out, 
Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted  air, 

For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists  are  ground  ; 

And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes  round, 

Between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stones, 

Unseen,  unheard,  the  wretched  bondman  groans, 
And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smothered,  anthem-drowned  ! 

Oh,  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  !— Looking  forth, 

As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold, 
Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church  of  Christ  on  earth, — 

The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold  I 


370  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I  see 
Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from  lip  to  lip 
In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  ; 
And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear,— 
Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear,— 
Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 
Lo  !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look  he  were, 
Healing  and  blessing  on  Gennesaret's  shore, 
Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender  might 

Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and  the  white, 
Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every  pain, 

Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking  every  chain ! 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI.* 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the  sea-cliffs  of  Maine, 
Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather  again  ; 
And,  with  hearts  warmer  grown  as  your  heads  grow  more  cool, 
Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to  school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your  whims  and  complaints, 
(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if  the  children  of  saints !  ) 
Aii  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rivalries  done, 
Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your  hearts  beat  as  one  I 

How  widely  soe'er  you  have  strayed  from  the  fold, 

Though  your  "  thee  "  has  grown  "  you,"  and  your  drab  blue  and  gold, 

To  the  old  friendly  speech  and  the  garb's  sober  form, 

Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tartan,  you  warm. 

But,  the  first  greetings  over,  you  glance  round  the  hall ; 
Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  answer  not  all  : 
Through  the  turf  green  above  them  the  dead  cannot  hear  ; 
Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls  sad  as  a  tear  ! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  summoned  so  soon 
From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we  toil  through  its  noon  ; 
They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they  had  needs  like  our  own, 
And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's  mercy  alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit  and  frame, 
Past,  now,  and  henceforward  the  Lord  is  the  same  ; 
Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  his  arms  break  our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life  he  is  Father  of  all ! 

We  are  older  :  our  footsteps,  so  light  in  the  play 

Of  the  far-away  schooltime,  more  slower  to-day  ; — 

Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there  a  bald,  shining  crown, 

And  beneath  the  cap's  border  gray  mingles  with  brown. 

•Read  at  the  Friends'  School  Anniversary,  Providence,  R.  I.,  6th  mo.,  1860. 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI.  3Y1 

But  faith  should  be  cheerful,  and  trust  should  be  glad, 
And  our  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years,  makes  us  sad. 
Should  the  heart  closer  shut  as  the  bonnet  grows  prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the  hat  grows  in  brim  ? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave  ;  but,  with  rain-folded  wings, 
Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful  heart  sings  ; 
And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to  pay 
The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on  our  way, 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the  follies  of  youth ; 
For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  whiteness  of  truth  ; 
For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love  tempered  its  edge  ; 
For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the  discipline's  hedge  ; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouchsafed  to  the  least 
Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  human  or  beast, 
Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending  strength  to  the  frail 
In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut,  and  jail ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier,  by  all 
Her  knowledge  of  good,  than  was  Eve  ere  her  fall, — 
Whose  task-work  of  duty  moves  lightly  as  play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as  the  day  ; 

And,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which  embraces  the  whole, 
Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and  the  soul, 
Wherein  letter  and  spirit  the  same  channel  run, 
And  man  has  not  severed  what  God  has  made  one ! 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed  everywhere, 

As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the  air  ; 

For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or  Jew, 

And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The  Light  shineth  through. 

Who  scoffs  at  our  birthright  ? — the  words  of  the  seers 
And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twilight  of  years. 
All  the  fore-gleams  of  wisdom  in  santon  and  sage, 
In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true  heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato  discerned  ; 
The  truth,  as  whose  symbol  the  Mithra-fire  burned; 
The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic  but  guessed, 
In  the  Light  Universal  the  Quaker  confessed  ! 

No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  belong  ; 
Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered  into  song  ; 
But  the  fountains  they  opened  still  gush  by  the  way, 
And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  better  to-day. 

He  who  lies  where  the  minster's  groined  arches  curve  down 
To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  England's  renown, 


372  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  enthroned, 
Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all  owned, — 

Who  through  the  world's  Pantheon  walked  in  his 
Setting  new  statues  up,  thrusting  old  ones  aside, 
And  in  fiction  the  pencils  of  history  dipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in  his  crypt,— 

How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with  blame 

The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche  of  his  fame  ! 

Self-will  is  self-wounding,  perversity  blind  : 

On  himself  fell  the  stain  for  the  Quaker  designed ! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father  before  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker  mother  that  bore  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works  that  outlive  him, 
And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we  freely  forgive  him ! 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that  our  numbers  are  small, — 
New  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline  and  our  fall ; 
But  the  Lord  of  the  seed-field  takes  care  of  his  own, 
And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our  sowers  have  sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may  go, 
Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Barnum  to  show  ; 
But  the  truth  will  outlive  him,  and  broaden  with  years, 
Till  the  false  dies  away,  and  the  wrong  disappears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.     Out  of  sight  sinks  the  stone, 
In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles  sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along  the  shores  run, 
Arid  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap  glad  in  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease,  to  forget 

To  the  martyrs  of  Trutli  and  of  Freedom  our  debt?— 

Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  the  garb  that  they  wore, 

And  for  Barclay's  Apology  offer  one  more? 

Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft  that  glutted  the  shears, 
And  festooned  the  stocks  with  our  grandfathers'  ears  ? 
Talk  of  Wool  man's  unsoundness? — count  Penn  heterodox? 
And  take  Cotton  Mather  in  place  of  George  Fox  ? — 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains  ? — quote  Scripture  to  take 
The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus'  sake  ? — 
Go  to  burning  church-candles,  and  chanting  in  choir, 
And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick  up  a  spire  ? 

No !  the  old  paths  we'll  keep  until  better  are  shown, 
Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad  or  our  own  ; 
And  while  "  Lo  here  ?'  and  "  Lo  there  "  the  multitude  call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to  all, 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI.  373 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not  refuse, 

Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were  Jews  ; 

But  why  shirk  the  badge  which  our  fathers  have  worn, 

Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having  been  born  ? 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's  prayer, 
Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benjamin's  share. 
Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and  one  : 
Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard  up  the  sun  ? 

Well  know  we  our  birthright  may  serve  but  to  show 
How  the  meanest  of  weeds  in  the  richest  soil  grow  ; 
But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good  which  we  hold  : 
Though  the  vessels  be  earthen,  the  treasure  is  gold  1 

Enough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and  the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be  our  aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life  may  be  true, 
And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab  coats  or  blue. 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship  at  will, 

In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's  hill. 

When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what  cares  the  good  town 

For  the  Baptist  of  WAYLAND,  the  Quaker  of  BROWN  ? 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh  and  sea-blown, 
When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her  annals  have  known, 
Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gangers  of  sect 
To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out  her  respect. 

Three  shades  at  this  moment  seem  walking  her  strand, 
Each  with  head  halo-crowned,  and  with  palms  in  his  hand,— 
Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and,  smiling  serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is  seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer  they  need 
Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words  of  creed  : 
The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  three-fold  accord, 
And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith,  and  one  Lord  ! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out :  Occasions  like  these 
Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on  the  seas  : 
While  we  sport  with  the  mosses  and  pebbles  ashore, 
They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see  them  no  more. 

Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  vagrant  thoughts  seem 
Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and  plays  with  his  theme. 
Forgive  the  light  measure  whose  changes  display 
The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief  April  day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  lip  and  the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile  or  to  cry  ; 


374  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt  like  our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in  tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys  and  the  girls 

At  the  feet  of  your  Slocums,  and  Cartlands,  and  Earles,— 

By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 

On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift,  to-day, — 

I  would  joy  -I  your  joy  :  let  me  have  a  friend's  part 
In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of  hand  and  of  heart, — 
On  your  play-ground  of  boyhood  unbend  the  brow's  care, 
And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoulders  must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School !  giving  out  year  by  year 
Recruits  to  true  manhood,  and  womanhood  dear  : 
Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beauty  sent  forth, 
The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its  worth  ! 

In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  steadily  flow 
And  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides  come  and  go  ; 
And  its  sons  and  its  daughters  in  prairie  and  town 
Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its  renown. 

Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was  made  ; 

Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  corner  were  laid  : 

The  blessing  of  Him  whom  in  secret  they  sought 

Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the  fathers  have  wrought. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever  ! — We  bear 
To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat  with  the  tare, 
What  we  lack  in  our  work  may  he  find  in  our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from  the  ill  1 


BROWN   OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE  spake  on  his  dying  day  : 
"  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a  prayer  for  me  ! " 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to  die  ; 

And  lo  !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed  nigh. 

Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old  harsh  face  grew 

mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the  negro's  child  ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the  loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the  good  intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's  aureole  bent ! 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE.  375 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  human  blood ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which  underlies  ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Never  more  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice  more  than  mail ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array  ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not  harm  the  dove ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to  Love  1 


FROM  PERUGIA. 

The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissevered  the  people  from  the  Pope, — the  unforgiv 
able  thing,— the  breaking  point  between  him  and  them,— has  been  the  encouragement 
and  promotion  he  gave  to  the  officer  under  whom  were  executed  the  slaughters  of 
Perugia.  That  made  the  breaking  point  in  many  honest  hearts  that  had  clung  to  him 
before." 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE'S  "LETTRES  FROM  ITALY." 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horse-tails  have  spread, 
Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and  red  ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and  buff ; 
And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet  and  ruff  ; 
Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the  cardinals  forth. 
Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of  the  earth. 

What's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  batter  of  drum  ? 
Lo  !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Perugia  come, — 
The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive  home 
To  the  hearts  of  the  malcontents,  cursed  and  abhorred, 
The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  1" 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword  ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 

O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and  torn  ! 

O  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards  for  shame  ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without  name  ! 

Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church  hireling  behaves, 

And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and  graves  ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the  blood-stains  yet  fresh, 
That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vintage  of  flesh, — 
Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and  rack 
How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained  sinews  crack  ; 
But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp  as  their  swords, 
And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the  air  with  fierce  words  \ 


376  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your  vivas  like  mad! 

Here's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  righteousness  clad, 

From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn  to  the  quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and  pick, 

Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  soldier  unites, 

And  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  fights  ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all  Rome  ; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the  new  era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk  be  a  man? 
Ah,  the  wolf's  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox  with  the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier  and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  !  Here's  a  hangman-faced  Swiss — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss) — 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him — he's  blest  beyond  doubt ; 

But  there's  blood  on  his  hands  which  would  scarcely  wash  out, 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal  spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next !     Here's  another  sweet  son  ! 

What's  this  mastiff- jawed  rascal  in  epaulettes  done  ? 

He  did,  whispers  rumor  (its  truth  God  forbid  !) 

At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 

And  the  mothers  ?— Don't  name  them  ! — these  humors  of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  pardon  him  for. 

Hist !  here's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's  hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth  of  a  cat 
(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were  rolled), 
Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  conscience  and  gold, 
Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pilfers  from  thence, 
And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing  his  pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?    Have  miracles  ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is  priest  ? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its  mystical  board, 
The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and  shed  by  its  sword, 
When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  clasps  the  crown  on  his  head, 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  Ins  neighbor  instead  ! 

There  !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same  blessed  way 
That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bartholomew's  day. 
Hark  !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor  women  nor  boys, 
Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of  noise. 
Te  Deum  laudamus! — All  round  without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood  in  't  1 

And  now  for  the  blessing  !     Of  little  account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard  on  the  Mount 
Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was  poor. 
No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore ; 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 


377 


No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home, 

No  Swiss  guards ! — We  order  things  better  at  Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse  us  the  weak  ; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her  beak  ; 
Let  the  wolf- whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba  again, 
With  his  death-cap  of  silence,  and  halter,  and  chain  ; 
Put  reason,  and  justice,  and  truth  under  ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for  man  1 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 


"  And  I  sought  whence  is  Evil:  I  set  before  the  eye  of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation  ; 
whatsoever  we  see  therein — sea,  earth,  air,  stars,  trees,  moral  creatures,— yea,  what 
soever  there  is  we  do  not  see — angels  and  spiritual  powers.  Where  is  evil,  and  whence 
comes  it,  since  God  the  Good  hath  created  all  things  ?  Why  made  He  anything  at  all 
of  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His  All-mightiness  cause  it  not  to  be  ?  These  thoughts  1 
turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  overcharged  with  most  gnawing  cares."  "Apd,  ad 
monished  to  return  to  myself.  I  entered  even  into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou  being  my 
guide,  and  beheld  even  beyond  my  soul  and  mind  the  Light  unchangeable.  He  who 
knows  the  Truth  knows  what  that  Light  is,  and  he  that  knows  it  knows 
Eternity  !  O  Truth  who  art  Eternity  !  Love,  who  art  Truth  !  Eternity,  who 
art  Love  !  and  I  beheld  that  Thou  madest  all  things  good,  and  to  Thee  is  nothing  what 
soever  evil.  From  the  angel  to  the  worm,  from  the  first  motion  to  the  last,  Thou 
settest  each  in  its  place,  and  everything  is  good  in  its  kind.  Woe  is  me  ! — how  high 
art  Thou  in  the  highest,  how  deep  in  the  deepest  !  and  Thou  never  departest  from  us, 
and  we  scarcely  return  to  Thee/'— AUGUSTINE'S  SOLILOQUIES,  Book  vii. 


THE     fourteen     centuries     fall 

away 
Between    us    and    the     Afric 

saint, 

And  at  his   side  we  urge,  to 
day, 

The   immemorial    quest  and    old 
complaint. 

No     outward     sign     to    us    is 

given,— 
From  sea  or  earth  comes  no 

reply  ; 
Hushed  as  the  warm  Numidian 

heaven 

He  vainly   questioned  bends   our 
frozen  sky. 

No    victory    comes    of    all  our 

strife,— 

From  all  we  grasp  the  mean 
ing  slips ; 
The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of 

life, 

With    the    old    question    on    her 
awful  lips. 


In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the 

feet 

Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  be 
hind  : 
We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and 

eat 

Ashes  and  dust  beneath  its  golden 
rind. 

From  age   to  age   descends  un 
checked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The    body's    taint,    the    mind's 

defect — 

Through   every    web  of  life    the 
dark  threads  run. 

Oh!    why    and    whither? — God 

knows  all  : 

I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best 
that  could. 

Between  the  dr.eadful  cherubim 
A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 


378 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And  saw  his  glory  into  goodness 
turn  ! 

For  he  is  merciful  as  just : 
And  so,    by  faith  correcting 

sight, 

I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they   seem  he   doeth  all 
things  right. 

And  dare  to  hope  that  he  will 

make 

The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubt 
ful  plain  ; 

His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of 
pain  ; 

That  suffering  is  not  his  revenge 
Upon  his  creatures  weak  and 

frail, 
Sent  on  a  pathway    new    and 

strange 

xWith  feet  that  wander  and  with 
eyes  that  fail ; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 
Watches    the    tender    eye  of 

Love 
The  slow  transmuting    of    the 

chain 

Whose    links  are    iron  below  to 
gold  above  ! 

Ah,  me !  we  doubt  the  shining 

skies 
Seen  through  our  shadows  of 

offence, 

And  drown  with  our  poor  child 
ish  cries 

The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Provi 
dence." 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause, 
And   of  the  just  effect  com 
plain  ; 
We    tread    upon    life's    broken 

laws, 

And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted 
pain  ; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and 
find 


Our  spectral  shapes  before  us 

thrown, 

As  they  who  leave  the  sun  be 
hind 

Walk  in    the  shadows  of  them 
selves  alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength 

of  ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day  ; 
Weak,      wavering,    blind,    the 

Eternal  Powers 

Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves 
away. 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of 

sin, 
But      love     must     needs     be 

stronger  far, 
Outreaching  all  and   gathering 

in 

The  erring  spirit  and  the  wander 
ing  star. 

A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing 

years  ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bit 
ter  cry, 
Looks  upward  from  her  graves, 

and  hears, 

"The  Resurrection  and   the  Life 
and  I." 

Oh,  Love   Divine  ! — whose  con 
stant  beam 
Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will 

not  see, 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we 

dream 

Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn 
from  thee  ! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  as 


pire, 
All 


hearts  of  prayer  by  thee 
are  lit ; 
And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues 

of  fire 

On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  cen 
turies  sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed 
thou  know'^t,, 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 


379 


Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors 

fall; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy 

Ghost 

Stoop,   seen  or  unseen,   o'er    the 
heads  of  all. 

Oh,  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new  !  * 
Eternal    Voice,    and    Inward 

Word. 
The  Logos  of  the    Greek    and 

Jew, 

The  old  sphere-music  which  the 
Samian  heard  ! 

Truth  which  the  sage  and  pro 
phet  saw, 
Long     sought     without    but 

found  within, 
The  Law  of  Love    beyond  all 

law, 

The  Li feo'erflooding  mortal  death 
and  sin  ! 

Shine  on  us  with  the  light  which 

glowed 

Upon  the  trance-bound  shep 
herd's  way, 

Who  saw    the  Darkness    over 
flowed 

And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlast 
ing  Day.f 

Shine,    light     of    God !— make 

broad  thy  scope 
To  all  who    sin  and   suffer ; 

more 
And    better    than    we    dare  to 

hope 

With  Heaven's  compassion  make 
our  longings  poor ! 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS    OP    HERBIPOLIS,    one 
day, 


While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot 

to  pray, 
Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious 

choice, 
Heard  from   without   a  miserable 

voice, 
A  sound  which   seemed  of  all  sad 

things  to  tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat    the    Abbot   paused ;  the 

chain  whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken 

by  that  cry ; 
And,  looking  from  the  casement, 

saw  below 
A  wretchecL  woman,   with    gray 

hair  a-flow, 
And  withered   hamls   held  up  to 

him,  who  cried 
For  alms  as  one   who  might  not 

be  denied. 

She  cried,  "For  the  dear  love  of 

Him  who  gave 
His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from 

bondage  save, — 
My    beautiful,     brave    first-born, 

chained  with  slaves 
In  the  Moor's   galley,  where  the 

sun-smit  waves 
Lap  the  white  walls  of  Tunis  !  " — 

4 'What  I  can 
I     give,"  Tritemius      said:  "my 

prayers." — "  O  man 
Of  God  !  "  she  cried,  for  grief  had 

made  her  bold, 
"Mock  me  not   thus;  I  ask  not 

prayers,  but  gold. 
Words  will  not   serve   me,   alms 

alone  suffice  ; 
Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my 

first-born  dies." 

"  Woman  !  "  Tritemius  answered, 
"from  our  door 

None  go  unfed  ;  hence  are  we  al 
ways  poor  : 


*  "  Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  O  Beauty  of  ancient  days,  yet  ever  new  !  And  lo  !  Thou 
wert  within,  and  I  abroad  searching  for  Thee.  Thou  wert  with  me,  but  I  was  not 
with  Thee."— AUGUST.  SOLILOQ.,  Book  x. 

t"AndI  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean  of  Darkness  and  Death;  but  an  infinite 
Ocean  of  Light  and  Love  flowed  over  the  Ocean  of  Darkness  :  And  in  that  I  saw  the 
infinite  Love  of  God."— GEORGE  Fox's  JOURNAL. 


380 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers  ; — what  can 
we  give  thee  more  ?  " 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "the  silver 
candlesticks 

On  either  side  of  the  great  cruci 
fix. 

God  well  may  spare  them  on  his 
errands  sped, 

Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones 
instead." 

Then  spake  Tritemius,  "  Even  as 
thy  word, 

Woman,  so  be  it !  (Our  most 
gracious  Lord,  0 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sac 
rifice, 

Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I 
prize 

Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar 
piled !) 

Take  what  thou  askest,  and  re 
deem  thy  child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy 
alms 

He  placed  within  the  beggar's 
eager  palms  ; 

And  as  she  vanished  down  the  lin 
den  shade, 

He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgive 
ness  prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the 

twilight  came 
He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  a- 

flame, 
And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder, 

to  behold 
Upon  the    altar    candlesticks  of 

gold! 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 

Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  Hun 
ter's  moon. 


In  its  pale  fire. 
The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the   zodiac's  spectral 

lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 
WHiereon  it  falls 

Transfigured     stand     in     marble 
trance  ! 


O'er  fallen  leaves 
The  west  wind  grieves, 
Yet    comes    a     seed-time    round 

again ; 

And  morn  shall  see 
The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or    healthful 
grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose   hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common 
weal. 

Around  I  see 
The  powers  that  be  ; 
I    stand     by     Empire's     primal 

springs  ; 

And  princes  meet 
In  every  street, 

And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned 
kings ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land, 

A  careless  hand 

May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's 
noon  ! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 
One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope   of  Freedom's 

year. 

Oh,  take  me  where 
Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bovred  in  reverent 
fear  I 


THE  OVER-HEART. 


381 


Not  ligh^y  iall 
Beyond  recall 
*ihe  written   scrolls  a   breath  can 

float ; 

The  crowning  fact, 
The  kingliest  act 
Df  Freedom,     is     the     freeman's 
vote! 


For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  : 


The  blood  of  Vane, 
His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim 

trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 
Drew  strength  from  death, 
And    prayed    her    Russell  up    to 
God! 


Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 

A  right  which  brave  men  died  to 
gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 


The  shadow  rend, 
And  o'er  us  bend, 
Oh,   martyrs,    with  your  crowns 

and  palms, — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 
Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dun 
geon  psalms ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 
Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,   with  search 
ing  beam  ; 
Till  in  the  sight 
Of  thy  pure  light 
Our    menu  self-seekings  manner 
seem. 


Shame  from  our  .hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 

The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose 
dark  ; 

Arid  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims, 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 

When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as 
one  ! 


THE  OVER-HEART. 

"  For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and 
to  Him  are  all  things,  to  whom  be  glory 
for  ever  !  " — PAUL. 

ABOVE,  below   in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,   in  star  and 

man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian 

scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 
The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all, — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and 

sight,— 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is  :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The     central     fact    of    Nature 

owns  ; 
Kneels,  trembling,  by  his  altar^ 

stones, 
And  darkly   dreams   the  ghastly 

smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 


382 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Guilt    shapes   the    Terror :    deep 

within 

The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 
Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 
And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 
The    fabled    gods    of    torments 
rise  ! 

And  what  is  He  ? — Tl^e  ripe  grain 

nods, 
The  sweet  dews  fall,  the  sweet 

flowers  blow  ; 
But  darker  signs  his  presence 

show  : 
The  earthquake  and  the  storm  are 

God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

Oh,  hearts  of  love  !  Oh,  souls  that 

turn 
Like  sunflowers  to  the  pure  and 

best! 

To  you  the  truth  is  manifest : 
For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  dis 
cern 

Who  lean  like  John   upon  his 
breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  Sibyl  told, 
For   whom   the  prophet's  harp 

was  toned, 
Whose  need  the  sage  and  magian 

owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 
The.  hope  for  which  the  ages 
groaned  ! 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  dei 
fied 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and 

pride ! 
Let  the  sacred  dreamer  wake  to 

see 

The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his 
side  ! 

What  doth  that  holy  Guide   re 
quire  ? — 
No    rite    of    pain,   nor    gift   of 

blood, 

But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 
Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 


Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 
And  let  the  pitying    heaven's 

sweet  rain 
Wash    out    the    altar's    bloody 

stain  ; 

The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How     fall    the    idols     false    and 

grim ! — 
And   lo !    their  hideous   wreck 

above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and 

Dove! 
Man    turns    from    God,   not  God 

from  him  ; 
And  guilt,  in  suffering,  whispers 

Love  ! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and   uncon- 

soled ; 
It  yet  shall  touch  his  garment's 

fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond    a  mortal's    scope    has 

grown. 

Oh,  heart  of  mine !  with  rever 
ence  own 

The  fullness  which  to  it  belongs, 
And  trust  the  unknown  for  .the 
known  ! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would 

see 
How  .Three  are  One,  and  One  is 

Three ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No    partial    favor    dropped     the 
rain  : — 


TRINITAS. 


383 


Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced     above     their    heading 
grain. 

And  my  heart  murmurs,   "Is  it 

meet 
That  blindfold  Nature  thus  should 

treat 
With  equal  hand  the  tares  and 

wheat  ?  " 

A  presence  melted  through  my 

mood, — 
A  warmth,   a  light,   a  sense    of 

good, 
Like  sunshine  through  a  winter 

wood. 

I  saw  that  presence,  mailed  com 
plete 

In  her  white  innocence,  pause  to 
greet 

A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 

Upon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From    inward    guilt   or  outward 
lure. 

"  Beware  ! "  I  said  ;  "  in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee  : 
Who  touches  pitch  denied  must 
be." 

I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and 

sin, 
And  a  voice    whispered,    "  Who 

therein 
Shall  these  lost  souls  to  Heaven's 

peace  win  ? 

"  Who  there  shall  hope  and  health 

dispense, 

And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds  are  prayers  of  peni 
tence  ? " 

I    said,    "  No    higher    life    they 

know  ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it 

so. 
Who  stoops  to  raise  them  sinks  as 

low," 


That  night  with  painful  care  I 

read 
What  Hippo's  saint    and  Calvin 

said, — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead  ! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 
Old  pages,  where  (God  give  them 

rest !) 
The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed 

and  guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me 

see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is 

Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me  ! " 

Then  something  whispered,  "  Dost 

thou  pray 
For   what  thou  hast  ?    This  very 

day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy 

way. 

"  Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 
To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 
The    all-compassionate     Father's 
care  ? 

"  In  the  white  soul  that  stooped  to 

raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 
Thou    saw'st    the    Christ,    whom 

angels  praise ! 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still,  small  Voice  that  spake 

to  thee 
Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery  ! 

"Oh,  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how 

small ! 

Father  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call  ; — 
This   day  thou  hast  denied  them 

all! 

"  Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine 

eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold 

guise, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and 

sun, 
His  Christ  in  the    good    to  evil 

done, 
His  Voice  in   thy  soul ; — and  the 

Three  are  One  !  " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The    schoolman's    creed    aside    I 
cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "  Lord, 

I  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is 

Three ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me  !  " 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and 

rose, 

Our  hills  are  maple-crowned  ; 
But  not   from   them  our   fathers 

chose 
The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 
To  Death  they  set  apart  ; 

With  scanty  grace  from  nature's 

hand, 
And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 
Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 

A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 
With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without    the    wall    a    birch-tree 

shows 

Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 
Within    a    stag-horned     sumach 

grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neigh 
boring  plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock 

chain, 
The.  Qow-beU  tinkles  slow, 


Low  moans  the  river  from  us  bed, 
The  distant  pines  reply  ; 

Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the 

dead, 
They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 
Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 

The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to 

shun, 
With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave 
with  flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  us  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they 

kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside  ; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who 

slept 
The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would 
blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry 

hung, 

In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 
And  harebells  swung  as  if  they 

rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 
The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 

The  common  light,  the  common 

air, 
O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 


It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 
The.  sunrise  and  the  n.oqn, 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 


385 


And  glorified  and  sanctified 
It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its 
sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell   with  fears    on   either 

hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And    spectral    problems  waiting 

stand 
Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The    doubts    we    vainly  seek    to 

solve, 

The  truths  we  know,  are  one  ; 
The  known  and  nameless  stars  re 
volve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 
And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 

The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 
The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change 
we  glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 
Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 

Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 
When  he  is  pledged  for  all  ? 

O    fearful    heart     and    troubled 

brain  ! 
Take  hope  and  strength  from 

this, — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet 

stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike    to    playground    and    the 
grave  ; 
over  both  is  Heaven, 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voices  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills  ! 
Not    the    braes    of    broom    and 

heather, 
Nor   the  mountains   dark  with 

rain, 
Nor  maiden    bower,   nor    border 

tower 

Have      heard     your     sweetest 
strain ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear  ; — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-ser 
pent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray    for    rescue,     wives    and 

mothers, — 

Pray  to-day  ! "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"To-morrow,  death's  between  us 
And  the  wrong  and  shame  we 
dread." 

Oh !    they    listened,   looked,   and 
waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  pray  or. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"Dinna    ye    hear    it? — dinna  ye 
hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed    the    wounded    man    his 

groaning  ; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 
the,  roar  of  Sepoy  guns, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


But  to  sounds  of  home  and  child 
hood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ; — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  cf  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call : 
''Hark!    hear  ye    no'    MacGreg- 
or's, — 

The  grandest  o'  them  all !  " 

Oh !    they    listened,    dumb    and 

breathless, 
And  they  caught  the  sound  at 

last; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 
Mingled    woman's     voice    and 

man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  ! — the  march  of 

Havelock  ! 
The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 

Louder,   nearer,   fierce  as  venge 
ance, 
Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at 

strife, 

Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan- 
call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust  cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 
The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  1 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Luck- 
now, 
Moslem     mosque     and    Pagan 

shrine, 

Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 
The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 
Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike 

strain  ; 

And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 
As   the    Goomtee    cleaves    the 
plain, 


Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade, 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 


MY  PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished 
years : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears  i 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west  winds  blow,  and,  sing 
ing  low, 

I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 
The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 

Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear  ; 
But,   grateful,   take    the    good  I 
find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 

The  manna  dropping  from  God's 

hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff, —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar  ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  Spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness    of  the    flowers  of 

May 

Blow    through     the     Autumn 
morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian 
look 

Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 
And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 

Shall  see  its  image  given  ;— -. 


LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE. 


387 


The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes 

of  praise, 

The  south  wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden 

haze 
Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less   shall    manly    deed    and 

word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe 

the  sword 
Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to 
heal,  — 

To  build  as  to  destroy  ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And    knoweth    more    of    all    my 
needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have       marked      my      erring 

track  ;  — 
That  wheresoe'er  my    feet    have 

swerved  , 

His     chastening      turned     me 
back  ;  — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and 
sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good  ; 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered 

way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein    no    blinded   child  can 

stray 
Beyond  the  Father's  sight  ;  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair  ;  — 


That    all    the    "jarring    notes  of 
life 

Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 
And  all  the  angels  of  its  strife 

Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west  winds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE.* 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew  ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture  ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn, — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O,  Marais  du  Cygrie  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 


*  The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffending  men,  in  Southern  Kansas,  took  place 
near  the  Marais  du  Cygue  of  the  French  voyageurs. 


388 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives  ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come  ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind    slow     from    the     Swan's 
Marsh, 

O  dreary  death  train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child  ! 
But    the    grain    of     God    springs 
up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood, — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry  ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by  ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


"THE  ROCK"  IN  EL  GHOR. 
DEAD     Petra     in     her    hill-tomb 


Her    stones    of    emptiness    re 
main  ; 
Around    her    sculptured  mystery 

sweeps 

-The    lonely    waste    of    Edom's 
plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the 

cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not 

back  ; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 
Her  arches  spring,  her  statues 

climb ; 
Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders 

pay 

No      tribute      to      the    spoiler, 
Time ! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of    power     and     glory     under- 

trod, — 
Of    nations    scattered     like     the 

chaff 

Blown  from  the  threshing-floor 
of  God. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger 

turn 
From  Petra's  gates,  with  deeper 

awe 

To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor  ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 
Thy  Rock,  El  Ghor,  is  standing 

yet,— 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 
And  keeps  the  watch  that  God 
has  set ; 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders 

loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to 

man, — 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van  ! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 


TO  J.  T.  P. 


389 


And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels 

play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile  ; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 
Cloud-bound,    by  Kadesh    Bar- 

nea's  wells. 
While  Moses  graved    the  sacred 

laws, 
And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet -sung  ! 
How  grew  its  shadowing  pile  at 

length, 

A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue. 
Of     God's    eternal     love     and 
strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 
From  age  to  age  went  down  the 

imme, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 
And  Christ,  the  Rock  of  Ages, 
came ! 

The  patli  of  life  we  walk  to-day 
Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews 

trod  ; 
We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as 

they,— 

We  need,  like  them,  the  guides 
of  God. 

God  send  his  angels,  Cloud  and 

Fire, 

To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand  ! 
God  give  our  hearts  their  long  de 
sire, — 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land ! 


TO  J.  T.  F. 

(ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OP  "  POEMS 
PRINTED,  NOT  PUBLISHED/') 

WELL  thought !  who  would  not 

rather  hear 
The  songs  to  Love  and  Friendship 

sung 
Than    those    which     move     the 

stranger's  tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear  ? 


Our  social    joys  are   more   than 

fame  ; 

Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name  ? 

Who  in  the  house  of  glass  would 

dwell, 

With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  crier's  bell  ? 

To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who    wants    to    play    the    ass's 

part.  — 

Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would 

shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common 

sense, 

To  share  the  noisy  recompense 
That    mocked     the     shorn     and 

blinded  slave  ? 


The  heart  has  ^eds  beyond  the 

head, 

And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 
Of  strange  gifts,  craves  its  com 

mon  food,  — 
Our  human  nature's  daily'bread. 

We  are  but  men  :  no  gods  are  we, 
To   sit  in   mid-heaven,   cold    and 

bleak, 

Each  separate  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In  Wartburg  woods  ;  or  that  poor 

•girl's 

Who  by  the  Ilm  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther 

sung, 

Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and 

vain, 

At  Weimar  sat.  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial 

nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again  I 


390 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet ! 
Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair! 
Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat  ? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky  ;  and  dim  and 

lone 

I  see  ye  sitting — stone  on  stone — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and 

shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes  ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals  ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's 
scream 

Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice  : 

For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suf 
fice, — 

The  valley-song  of  bird  and 
stream ; 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of 

bees, 

The  flail-beat  chiming  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice    of    God    in    leaf    and 

breeze ! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,   my  wiser 

friend, 

And  help  me  to  the  vales  below 
(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 
Where  sweet  with  flowers  the 

fields  extend. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of 

balm? 
Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless 

calm? 


A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  be 
neath, 

Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm- 
bark  sheath, 

And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth 
with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and 

rails, 

Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly 

trails ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so 

well? 

The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner 

cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and 

fine, 
But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil 

and  wine, 
And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under 

the  Line ! 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and 
calm  ? 

The  master,  whose  cunning  and 
skill  could  charm 

Cargo  and  ship  from  the  boun 
teous  palm. 

In  the  cabin,  he  sits  on  a  palm- 
mat  soft, 

From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink 
is  quaffed, 

And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from 
the  sun  aloft ! 

His    dress    is    woven    of    palmy 

strands, 
And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in 

his  hands, 
Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise 

commands ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 
Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm- 
leaf  braid, 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of 
palm  was  made. 


THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 


391 


Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet 

spun 
Whereon  lie  kneels  when  the  day 

is  done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are 

bowed  as  one ! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein    all  uses  of    man  com 
bine, — 

House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and 
wine ! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  re 
lease, 

His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only 
cease 

With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth 
in  peace. 

"Allah  is  Allah!"  he  sings  his 

psalm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of 

balm  ; 
'  Thanks  to  Allah  who  gives  the 

palm  ! " 


LINES 

Read  at  the  Boston  Celebration  of  the 
Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  birth  of 
Robert  Burns,  25th  1st  month,  1859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down, 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown  ! 
The   choral    praise,  the    chanted 
prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The  hunted  Cameron's  mountain 
airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung  ! 

Yet,    jarring    not    the    heavenly 
notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird  ! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below  ; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud 
and  high 

The  cloudy  organs,  blow  \ 


And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Gluey 's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

WTho  gave  them  both  a  tongue  ; 
For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy  ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of 
Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  Spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might 
sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the 
hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,  heart  to  heart,  two  nations 
lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine  ! 


THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 
With    the    drifting    cloud-rack 
joins, — 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north  wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow  ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 
And  one  upon  the  shore, 


392 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warn 
ing 
That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese  ? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the   voice    of    the 
north  wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace  ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  oells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 

That    call    from    their    turrets 

twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north  winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests    his    feet    on    wave    and 

shore, 
And    our    eyes    grow    dim    with 

watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 
The  signal  of  his  release 

In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 
The  chimes  of  eternal  peace  ! 


KENOZA  LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 
To-day    the    primal    right    we 

claim  : 
Fair    mirror    of  the    woods    and 

skies, 
We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel !— let  no  more 
The  echoes  answer  back  "Great 
Pond," 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 


Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy 

lines, 
Call  back  the  ancient  name    to 

thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot 

boys, 
The  nutted  woods  we  wandered 

through, 
To    friendship,   love,    and    social 

joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 

Here  shall    the    tender  song    be 

sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and 

low, 
And    wit    shall    sparkle    on    the 

tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless    as    summer    lightning 

plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by 

night, 

A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are  exiled  hearts  remembering 

still. 
As  bees  their  hive,  as  birds  their 

nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day ; 

And,   listening,  we  may  hear, 

ere  long, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza  !  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 
Shall   morning  break  or  noon- 
cloud  sail,— 
No  fairer  face    than  thine  shall 

take 
The  sunset's  golden  vail. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 
Shall  break  with  harsh-resound 
ing  din 


THE  SISTERS. 


The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  tliee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the 

hare, 

The  shy  loon  sound  his  trumpet- 
note  ; 

Wing-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  tliee  float. 

Thy  peace    rebuke   our    feverish 

stiry 
Thy     beauty     our     deforming 

strife  ; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  re 
leased, 
Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored 

sky, 

Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 
The  Master's  loving  eye. 

And  when  the  summer  day  grows 

dim, 
And  light  mists  walk  thy  mimic 

sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee  ! 


TO  G.  B.  C. 

So  spake  Esaias :  so.  in  words  of 

flame, 
Tekoa's  prophet-herdsman  smote 

with  blame 
The  traffickers  in  men,  and  put  to 

shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  for 

these  again, 
To  smite    like  lightning   on  the 

hands  profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and 

the  chain. 
Once     more    th'    old     Hebrew 

tongue 
Bends  with  the  shafts  of  God  a 

bow  new  strung  I 


Take  up   the  mantle  which  the 

prophets  wore  ; 
Warn  with  their  warnings, — show 

the  Christ  once  more 
Bound,  scourged,  and  crucified  in 

his  blameless  poor  ; 
And  shake  above  our  land 
The  unquenched  bolts  that  blazed 

in  Hosea's  hand  ! 

Not  vainly  shalt  thou  cast  upon 
our  years 

The  solemn  burdens  of  the  Orient 
seers, 

And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  na 
tion's  ears. 
Mightier  was  Luther's  word 

Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm  or 
Button's  sword ! 


THE  SISTERS. 
A  PICTURE  BY  BARRY. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill, 

So  come  to  me,  my  little  one. — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 
The  trust  upon  thy  brow  ; 

Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath 

called 
We  have  an  angel  now.  . 

Our    mother  from    the  fields  of 
heaven 

Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 
Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 

Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  be 
neath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But    sweetest    of    the    sounds  of 

heaven 
Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 


394: 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust   upon   the 

arm 
Which  folds  us  both  unseen  ! 


LINES. 

FOR  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND  HOR 
TICULTURAL  EXHIBITION  AT 
AMESBURY   AND   SALIS 
BURY,  SEPT.  28,  1858. 

THIS  clay,  two  hundred  years  ago. 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's 

side, 
And  tasteless  ground-nut  trailing 

low, 

The    table    of   the  woods    sup 
plied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The  blushing  tint  of  peach  and 
pear ; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to 

till, 

These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod  ; 
Nor     knew    the    glad,     creative 

skill,— 

The  ioy  of  him  who  toils  with 
God. 

O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers ! 
We  thank  Thee  for   thy  wise 

design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of 

ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with 
thine. 

And  thanks  that  from  our  daily 

need 

The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 
That  he  who  smites  the  summer 

weed, 

May  trust  thee  for  the  autumn 
corn. 


Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves 

their  power ; 
Let  fortune's  bubbles   rise   and 

fall; 
Who  sows    a    field,   or    trains    a 

flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than 
all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his 

worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time    of  harvest   shall  be 

given  ; 
The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit 

shall  grow, 

If    not    on    earth,    at    last    in 
heaven  ! 


THE   PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath    a    thousand  roofs    of 

brown, 
Far    down    the    vale,   my  friend 

and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mys 
tery  ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the 

sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that 

run 

Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 
The    sand-bluffs    at    the    river's 

mouth  ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and, 

afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 
Of  clouds  through  which    the 

setting  day 
Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sand, 
It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 


THE  PREACHER. 


305 


Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that 

wore 

Outward  or  in,  and  gilded  o'er 
The  steeples  with  their  veering 

vanes ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid 
search 

O'erran  the  landscape.  "Yon 
der  spire 

Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 
What  is  it,  pray  ?  "— 'k  The  White- 
field  Church  ! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement 
stones, 

There  rest  the  marvellous 
prophet's  bones." 

Then  as  our  homeward  way  we 

walked, 
Of  the  great   preacher's  life  we 

talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our 

theme 
The    outward    glory    seemed    to 

stream, 

And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of 

our  blame 
With    tongues    of    Pentecostal 

flame. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 

Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred 
years  ; 

On  man  and  his  works  has  passed 
the  change 

Which  needs  must  be  in  a  cen 
tury's  range. 

The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in 

the  sun, 
Anvils    clamor    and    mill-wheels 

run, — 
Flocks  on  the  hill-sides,  herds  on 

the  plain, 
The   wilderness    gladdened    with 

fruit  and  grain  J 


But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers 

old 
A  dead   profession  their  children 

hold  ; 
To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of 

trade 

A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made 
The  church,  to  place  and  powe> 

the  door, 
Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no 

more, 
Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless 

poor. 

Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 
And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 
And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the 

fathers  meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent, — 
A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 
When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the 

break  of  day, — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 
And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity  ! 


But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rot 
ting  roots 

Of  primal  forests  the  young 
growth  shoots  ; 

From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new 
proceeds, 

And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot 
of  creeds : 

On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  up 
ward  leads, 

The  steps  of  progress  are  human 
needs. 

For  his  judgments  still  are  a 
mighty  deep, 

And  the  eyes  of  his  providence 
never  sleep : 

When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives 
the  morn  ; 

When  the  famine  is  sorest,  the 
wine  and  corn ! 

In  the  church  of  the  wilderness 

Edwards  wrought, 
Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of 

thought ; 
And    with    Thor's   own    hammer 

welded  and  bent 
The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 


396 


Which    strove    to    grasp 

mighty  span 
The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate 

of  man  ! 
Yet    faithful    still,   in    his    daily 

round 
To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,   and 

sin-sick  found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casu 
ist's  art 
Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his 

fervent  heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 
Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northamp 
ton  woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 
Not  the  blinding  splendor  which 

fell  on  Saul, 
But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests 

on  them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are 

known, 
But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the 

light  alone  ! 
And    watching    the    sweet,    still 

countenance 
Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in 

trance, 
Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken 

word 
Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and 

heard ; 
And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer 

more 
That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth 

she  bore 
Clusters  of  Eschol  from  Canaan's 

shore ! 

As  the  barley-winnower,  holding 

with  pain 
Aloft    in   waiting  his  chaff    and 

grain, 
Joyfully     welcomes     the    far-off 

breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender 

keys, 

So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing 

near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo 

heard 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS, 
in    its 


When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myr 
tles  stirred, 

Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over   his  church  the  afflatus 

passed, 

Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant 
lake. 

A  t  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 

The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger 
near, 

A  vague  foreboding  and  discon 
tent, 

Over  the  hearts  of  the  people 
went. 

All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and 
signs  : 

The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest 
pines 

In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called 
to  prayer. 

As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the 
minaret  stair. 

Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret 
sin 

Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone 
in  ; 

A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's 
needs 

Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 

The  trembling  hand  of  the  world 
ling  shook 

The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy 
Book; 

And  the  psalms  of  David,  for 
gotten  long, 

Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's 
song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  out 
ward  course 

Of  waters  moved  by  a  central 
force  : 

The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled 
down 

From  inland  mountains  to  sea 
board  town. 

Prepared    and    ready    the    altar 

stands 
Waiting  the  prophet's  outstretched 

hands 


THE  PREACHER. 


397 


And  prayer  availing,  to  downward 
call 

The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 

Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  fur 
nace,  who 

Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast 
them  anew  ? 

Lo !  by  the  Merrimack  WHITE- 
FIELD  stands 

In  the  temple  that  never  was  made 
by  hands, — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal 
wall, 

And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over 
all!— 

A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious 
name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of 
fame  ; 

Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing 
classed, 

And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 

Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and 
gauge 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and 
age, 

And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast 
draw 

Of  human  frailty  and  perfect 
law  ; 

Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought 
that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 

Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying — Re 
pent  ! 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature 

make ; 
Here    or    there    the    circle    will 

break  ; 
The  orb  of    life  as  it  takes  the 

light 
On  one  side  leaves  the   other  in 

night. 

Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's 

gate 

For  the  plea  of  the  devil's  advo 
cate. 

So.  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The  marvellous  preacher  had  his 

flaw  : 


With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with 
faults 

His  shade  on  the  path  of  History 
halts. 

Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern 
bard : 

Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard, — 

Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's 
rage, 

And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrim 
age  ; 

But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who 
can 

Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus  he — to  whom,  in  the  painful 

stress 

Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  ex 
cess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth 

so  small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God 

was  all — 
Forgat,  as  the  best  at  times  have 

done. 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of 

man  are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny   path    of    the    desert 

trod, 

Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the 

poor  man's  wrong, 
The  weak  ones  trodden   beneath 

the  strong. 
Should  the  worm  be  chooser  ? — the 

clay  withstand 
The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's 

hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn   of  a  god  rebuke   his 

fears  : 

"  Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna  saith  : 
"  Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of 

death  ! 

All  is  illusion, — loss  but.seems  ; 
Pleasure    and     pain     are      only 

dreams  ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not 

kill; 

Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime  ; 


398 


WHITTIEB'S  POEMS. 


Nothing  dies   but   the  cheats  of 

time ; 

Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To    each,    immortal    as    Indra's 

gods  I  " 

So  by  Savanna's  banks  of  shade, 
The    stones    of   his    mission    the 

preacher  laid 
On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed 

and  rent, 
And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's 

cement ; 
Bade  the  slave-ship  speed    from 

coast  to  coast 
Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy 

Ghost ; 
And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ, 

the  gold 
Coined  from    the    hearts    in    its 

groaning  hold. 
What  could  it  matter,   more  or 

less 

Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weari 
ness? 

Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 
What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas  for  the  preacher's  cherished 

schemes ! 
Mission  and  church  are  now  but 

dreams  ; 
Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the 

plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong 

of  man. 

Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save   the    bondman     lifting    his 

hands  in  chains. 
The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous 

warp 

Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with    curses  the    goodly 

land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom 

to  sand ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once 

more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's 

shore. 

Father  of  Light !  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears 

to  Thee 


With  the  blood  and  tears  of  hu 
manity  ! 

He  erred :  Shall  we  count  his 
gifts  as  naught  ? 

Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  un- 
wrought  ? 

The  servant  may  through  his  deaf 
ness  err, 

And  blind  may  be  God's  messen 
ger  ; 

But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go 
upon, — 

The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is 
done. 

Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair 

and  good 
That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of 

wood  ? 

For  his  tempted  heart  and  wan 
dering  feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure 

and  sweet  ? 
So     in    light    and    shadow    the 

preacher  went, 

God's  erring  and  human  instru 
ment  ; 
And  the  hearts  jf  the  people  where 

he  passed 
Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the 

blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which 

took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's 

brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the 

bells  of  gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest 

of  old,— 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now 

the  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount 

of  Law. 

A  solemn  fear    on    the  listening 

crowd 

Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the 

ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the 

river  slips 


THE  PREACHER. 


S99 


Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on 

his  lips. 
Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and 

hard, 

The  calker  rough  from  the  build 
er's  yard, 
The  man  of  the  market  left  his 

load, 

The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bend 
ing  goad, 
The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her, 

felt 
Their  hearts    in    a    closer  union 

melt, 
And  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love 

in  bloom 
Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to 

come. 

Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of 

gray; 
And  careless  boyhood,  living  the 

free 

Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 
Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 
Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 
It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 
Called  the  listeners  up  for  their 

final  choice ; 

As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 
The  vails  of  sense  from  soul  and 

heart, 

Showing  in  light  ineffable 
The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of 

hell ! 

All  about  in  the  misty  air 
The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent 

prayer ; 
The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning 

sedge, 
The  -water's  lap  on  its  gravelled 

edge, 
The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and 

faint, 

The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  com 
plaint, — 
To    the     solemn    voice     of    the 

preacher  lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament ; 
And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its 

sandy  coast 
On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard, 

now  lost, 


Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of 
the  judgment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good 

men  wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above 

them  swept, 
And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to 

flame, 
The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel 

came, — 
Davenport,     flashing     upon     the 

crowd, 
Charged    like    summer's    electric 

cloud, 
Now  holding  the  listener  still  as 

death 
With    terrible    warnings     under  ^ 

breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,   as  if  lie 

viewed 

The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 
And  Celtic  Tennant,  his  long  coat 

bound 
Like  a  monk's  with  leathern  girdle 

round, 
Wild   with  the   toss  of    unshorn 

hair, 
And  wringing  of  hands,  and  eyes 

aglare, 

Groaning  under  the  world's  de 
spair  ! 
Grave     pastors,     grieving     their 

flocks  to  lose, 

Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 
That  gourds  would  wither,  and 

mushrooms  die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soon 
est  dry, 
Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in 

Newbury  street, 

Under    the  tramp  of  the  earth 
quake's  feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 
For    a    single    day,  then  lost  in 

night, 

Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 
Sandy    fissures    and    sulphurous 

srnell. 
With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white 

heat  cool, 
Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of 

rule, 


400 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


No  longer  harried,  and  cropped 

and  fleeced, 
Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by 

priest. 

But  by  wiser  councils  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentered,  to  count  as 

done 
The  work  which  his  fathers  scarce 

begun, 

In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his 

own, — 
A     non-conductor     among     the 

wires, 
With    coat  of  asbestos  proof  to 

fires, 
And    quite  unable  to    mend  his 

pace 
To  catch    the    falling  manna  of 

grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his    little 

store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for 

more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of 

rite, 
But    holding,  as  in  his   Master's 

sight, 
Act    and    thought    to    the  inner 

light, 
The  round  of  his    simple   duties 

walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others 

talked  ! 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil 
went 

Step  by  step  with  the  good  in 
tent, 

And  with  love  and  meekness,  side 
by  side, 

Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual 
pride  ? — 

That  passionate  longings  and  fan 
cies  vain 

Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed 
the  brain  ?— 

That  over  the  holy  oracles 

Folly  sported  with  cap  and 
bells?— 

That  goodly  women  and  learned 
men. 


Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and 

pen 
How  un  weaned  children  chirped 

like  birds 
Texts    of    Scripture   and    solemn 

words, 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky 

glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Ce- 

vennes : 
Or    baby  Lamas   who  pray    and 

preach 
From  Tartar  cradles  in  Buddha's 

speech  I 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Free 
dom  wages 

With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong 
of  ages, 

Hate  and  malice  and  self-love 
mar 

The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful 
jar, 

And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 

Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame 
to  hide. 

Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 

The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 

But  grates  and  grinds  with  fric 
tion  hard 

On  granite  boulder  and  flinty 
shard. 

The  heart  must  bleed  before  it 
feels, 

The  pool  be  troubled  before  it 
heals  ; 

Ever  by  losses  the  right  must 
gain, 

Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  ; 

The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 

The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  be 
hind, 

And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the 
fire 

Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  ex 
pire  ; 

The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he 
rent 

The  tortured  body  from  which  he 
went. 


But  Time  tests  all. 
drift 


In  the  over- 


THE  PREACHER. 


401 


And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  an 
nual  gift, 
Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics 

sunk? 
Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out 

Coptic  monk  ? 
The  tide  that  loosens  the  temple's 

stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis  bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 
That  Arab  robber,  the  wandering 

sand, 
Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no 

rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of 

grain, 
And  bread  to  the  sower  brings 

again. 
So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and 

strong 
Troubled    the    land    as    it  swept 

along, 

But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers    and    worthier 

wives. 

The  husband  and    father  whose 
children  fled 

And    sad    wife    wept    when    his 
drunken  tread 

Frightened    peace  from   his  roof- 
tree's  shade. 

And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearth 
stone  made, 

In  a  strength   that   was  not  his 
own,  began 

To  rise  from   the   brute's  to  the 
plane  of  man. 

Did  friends  embraced,  long  held 

apart 

!   3y  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart ; 
I  And  penitence  saw  through  misty 
tears, 

In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of 
fears, 

The  promise  of  Heaven's  eternal 
years, — 

The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's 
annoy, — 

Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  for  joy! 


Under    the   church 
street, 


of   Federal- 


Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath 
feet, 

Walled  about  by  its  basement 
stones, 

Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's 
bones. 

No  saintly  honors  to  them  are 
shown, 

No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they 
known  ; 

But  he  who  passes  the  ancient 
church 

Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry- 
porch, 

And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of 
him 

Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel 
dim. 

Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his 
eye 

From  the  railroad  car,  as  it 
plunges  by, 

And  the  vanishing  town  behind 
him  search 

For  the  slender  spire  of  the  White- 
field  Church  ; 

And  feel  for  one  moment  the 
ghosts  of  trade, 

And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleas~ 
ure  laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure 
intent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  elo 
quent, 

Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels 
sent, 

And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood 
of  sin 

Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar 
sets  in, 

And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 

The  church-spires  lift  their  vain 
defence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 

With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thun 
der-rod, — 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic 
crown, 

Precious  beyond  the  world's  re 
nown, 

His  memory  hallows  the  ancient 
town  I 


402  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 


THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,   the 

shrine 
Of    fruitful    Ceres,    charm    no 

more  ; 
The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and 

pine 

Are  dust    along    the    Isthmian 
shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 
And    nature    holds    us  still  in 

debt; 
And  woman's  grace  and  household 

skill, 

And  manhood's  toil,  are  hon 
ored  yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own 
again 

The  blessing  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 

To    see  our  Father's  hand    once 

more 
Reverse    for    us  the   plenteous 

horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 
With    fruit,    and    flower,    and 
golden  corn ! 

Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs 

out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or 

gold  ; 
Once  more  with  harvest  song  and 

shout 

Is  Nature's   bloodless    triumph 
told. 

Our    common  mother  rests    and 

sings, 
Like  Ruth,  among  her  garnered 

sheaves ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 
Her  brow  is  bright  with  autumn 
leaves. 

O,  favors  every  year  made  new  ! 
O,  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine 
sent  t 


The  bount3r  overruns  our  due, 
The  fullness  shames  our  discon 
tent. 

We  shut  our    eyes,    the    flowers 

bloom  on  ; 
We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears 

fill; 
We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the 

sun 

That  casts  it  shines  behind  us 
still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make   it    Eden- 
fair, 
And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our 

toil 

Than    summer-wedded    islands 
bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day  ? 
Who  scorns  his  native  fruit  and 

bloom  ? 

Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 
Beside  the  bounteous  board  of 
home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Free 
dom's  arm 
Can    change    a    rocky    soil    to 

gold,— 
That  brave  and  generous  lives  can 

warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And    let    these    altars    wreathed 

with  flowers 
And  piled   with    fruits    awake 

again 
Thanksgiving     for     the     golden 

hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  I 


IN  WAR  TIME. 

THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

WE  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night, — with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled 
drift, 


Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we 

lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  I 


A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR.  4Q3 

A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR. 

In 


The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may 
faint, 

But  who  are  we  to  make  com 
plaint, 

Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like 
these, 

The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankful 
ness 

Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for 

Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and 
line, 

We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  de 
sign, 

And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  sup 
plies 

Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson 

scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present 

pain 

Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy 

keys, 

The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old 

refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


THE    firmament    breaks    up. 

black  eclipse 
Light  after  light  goes  out.     One 

evil  star, 
Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke 

of  war, 

As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Drags  others    down.     Let  us  not 

weakly  weep 
Nor    rashly    threaten.      Give    us 

grace  to  keep 

Our  faith  and   patience;  where 
fore  should  we  leap 
On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 
Or,   on    the    other,   yield  eternal 

right, 
Frame  lies  of  law.  and  good  and 

ill  confound  ? 
What  fear  we  ?     Safe  on  freedom's 

vantage  ground 
Our  feet  are  planted  :  let  us  there 

remain 
In  unre vengeful  calm,  no  means 

untried 
Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just 

claim  denied, 

The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide  ! 
They  break  the   links  of  Union  : 

shall  we  light 
The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the 

chain 
On    that  red    anvil   where    each 

blow  is  pain  ? 
Draw  we  not  even  now   a  freer 

breath, 
As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load 

of  death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's 

victim  bore 
When   keen  with  life  to  a  dead 

horror  bound  ? 
Why    take  \ve  up  the   accursed 

tiling  again  ? 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back 

no  more 
Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt 

disunion's  rag 
With  its  vile  reptile  blazon.     Let 

us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  bravg 

old  flag 


4:04 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


In  closer  union,  and,  if  number 
ing  less, 

Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars 
which  still  remain. 

16th,  1st  month,  1861. 


EIN  F^STE  BURG  1ST  UNSER 
GOTT." 


(LUTHER'S    HYMN.) 

WE    wait    beneath    the  furnace- 
blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  tiie  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire  ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 


The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages 

feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping  ; 
The    poison    plant     the    fathers 

spared 

All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 


What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades 

of  steel? 

^What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What    sets  the    roaring    rabble's 

heel 

On  the  old   star-spangled   pen 
non  ? 

What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?— 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  ! 


Then  waste  no  blows    on  lesser 

foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God    lifts    to-day    the    vail,    and 

shows 

The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
O  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
"  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 


What  though  the  cast-out  spirit 

tear 

The  nation  in  his^going  ? 
We   who  have  shared  the    guilt 

must  share 

The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing  ! 
Whatever  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 


For  who  that  leans  on  His  right 

arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer 

harm 

If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud 
And  dark  the  cloud 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above    the    maddening    cry    for 

blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let    Freedom's    voice    be  heard, 

with  good 

The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose      end      shall      gladden 
Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 
Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 


THE  WATCHERS. 


405 


While  still  is  spared  the  evil  tiling 
That  severs  and  estranges. 

But  blest  the  ear 

That  yet  shall  hear 

The  jubilant  bell 

That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever  ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 
And  hushed  the  breath  of  sigh 
ing  ; 

Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor  ! 


TO  JOHN  C.  FREMONT. 

THY  error,  Fremont,  simply  was 
to  act 

A  brave  man's  part,  without  the 
statesman's  tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  com 
mon  sense, 

To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  con 
sequence. 

O,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound 
his  horn 

At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been 
blown 

Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling 
as  thine  own, 

Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's 
hope  forlorn  ! 

It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for 
the  time, 

To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  of 
fence 

To  that  Dark  Power  whose  under 
lying  crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  tur 
bulence. 

But,  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who 
break 

The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or 
forerun  their  years 

Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout 
hearts  make 


A  lane  for  freedom  through  the 

level  spears, 
Still  take  thou  courage  !    God  has 

spoken  throur  h  thee, 
Irrevocable,    the    mighty  words. 

Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and 

the  slave's  dull  ear 
Turns      from      the      rice-swamp 

stealthily  to  hear. 
Who  would  recall  them  now  must 

first  arrest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from 

the  free  North-west, 
Ruffling  the  Gulf  ;  or  like  a  scroll 

roll  back 
The    Mississippi     to     its     upper 

springs. 
Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy, 

and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into 

things. 


THE  WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 
On   the  torn   turf,  on  grass  and 

wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the 

slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with 

pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping 

head 
And   folded  wings  and   noiseless 

tread , 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the 

dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly 
bland 

And  lips  of  blessing,  not  com 
mand, 

Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive 
wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred 
and  knit, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires 

lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long!  ' — I  knew  the  voice 
of  Peace,— 

"Is  there  no  respite? — no  re 
lease  ?— 

When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel 
cease  ? 

"  O  Lord,  how  long  !— One  human 

soul 
Is    more    than    any    parchment 

scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"What    price    was    Ellsworth's, 

young  and  brave  ? 
How   weigh   the   gift   that  Lyon 

gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's 

grave  ? 

"  O  brother!  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall 

be. 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and 


me. 


Then   Freedom   sternly   said  :  "  I 

shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the 

sun, 
When  human  rights  are  stnke;! 

and  won. 

"I    knelt     with     Ziska's     hunted 

flock, 
I  watched  in  Touss:rint's  cell  of 

rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"The  moor  of  Marston   felt  my 

tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march 

lied, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"But  now,   through    weary   day 

and  night. 

I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 


"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 
One    guards    through     love     his 

ghastly  throne, 
And  one  through  fear  to  reverence 

grown. 

"  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked, 

betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 
To  speed  thy  coming  through  nay 

aid? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or 

fall  ?- 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 
I  leave   them    to    their    senseless 

brawl.*' 

"Nay,"    Peace    implored:    "yet 

longer  wait  : 
The  doom   is  near,   the  stake  is 

great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way 

prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of 

prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare," 

"  Too  late  !  "  the  stern,  sad  voice 

replied, 
"Too  late!"  its  mournful  echo 

sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died, 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 
An    upward   gleam    of    lessening 

white. 
So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and 

sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to 

tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang; 

the  rod 
Must  fall,  tho  wine-press  must  be 

trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  I  " 


TO  ENGLISHMEN. 


407 


TO  ENGLISHMEN. 

YOU  flung  your  taunt  across  the 

wave  ; 

We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered 

slave 

Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 
To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You  scoffed  ou  r  plea.     ' '  Mere  lack 

of  will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us  : 
We  showed  our  free-state  records  ; 

still 
You  mocked,   confounding  good 

and  ill, 
Slave-haters  and  slaveholders. 

We    struck    at    Slavery  ;    to  the 

verge 
Of  power  and  means  we  checked 

it; 
Lo  ! — presto,   change  !    its  claims 

you  urge, 

Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could 

shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our    Northern    palms,    for    con 
science'  sake : 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that 

ache 
With  "  walloping  the  nigger !  "  * 

O     Englishmen  ! — in     hope    and 

creed, 
In     blood      and     tongue     our 

brothers  ! 

We  two  are  heirs  of  Runny mede  ; 
And     Shakespeare's     fame     and 

Cromwell's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

54  Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 
Through  centuries  of  story 

*  See  English  caricatures  of  America  : 
Slaveholder  and  cowhide,  with  the  motto, 
u  Have  n't  I  a  right  to  wallop  my  nig 
ger?" 


Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and 

still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and 

ill, 
The  shadow  and  the  glory. 


Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of 

wave 
Nor  length  of  years  can   part 

us  : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and 

grave, 
The    common    freehold    of    the 

brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp    at    faults    with    bitter 

speech, 
The  while  for  one  unshared  by 

each 
We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  heart,  if  not  the 

knee, 
To  England's  Queen,  God  bless 

her! 
We  praised  you  when  your  slaves 

went  free : 
We  seek  to  unchain  ours.     Will 

ve 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor? 

And     is     it     Christian    England 

cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And   must  she  run,   despite    the 

tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred 

years, 
A-muck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 

O  black  disgrace!  O  shame  and 

loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase 

on  ! 
Tear    from    your    flag     its    holy 

cross, 

And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon  ! 


408 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


ASTR^A    AT   THE   CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  THE  DIS 
TRICT  OF  COLUMBIA,    1862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 

The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother 

sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of 

gold, 

Blue-eyed  and   fair  with    Saxon 
blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 
And,  smothering  down  the 

wrath  and  shame 
That    set    my    Northern    blood 

aflame, 

Stood  silent — where  to  speak  was 
death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  de 
cline 
For    uttering  simple  words  of 

mine, 
And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag   that    floated    from    the 

dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning 

air; 

I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 
The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :   Gown  and 

Sword 

And  Law  their  threefold  sanc 
tion  gave, 

And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 
Went  hawking  with  our  symbol- 
bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 

And    yet    I    knew    that    every 
wrong. 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 


I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the 

lie,- 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end 

would  be  ; 

Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 
The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !     In  the  sun 
A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder 

dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and 

home 
The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not    as    we    hoped,    in    calm    of 

prayer, 
The    message    of     deliverance 

comes, 

But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 
On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  !— 

'Midst  sounds  that  madden  and 

appall, 
The    song     that      Bethlehem's 

shepherds  knew  ! 
The    harp    of    David    melting 

through 
The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ; — but  what  are 

we? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and 

plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than 

man's, 
The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That    freedom's  blessed  gospel 

tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells. 

Rejoicing  ! — yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the 

sun, — 

Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal 

shore 

The  slow    work    by  your   hands 
begun, — 

Rejoice  with  me !    The  chasten 
ing  rod 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 


409 


Blossoms  with    love ;    the  fur 
nace  heat 

Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed 

feet 
Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice !      Our     Marah's     bitter 

springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground 

of  grief 

Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 
The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope  !    The    day  and 

night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with 

them 
Who  see  by   faith  the    cloudy 

hem 
Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF 

1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds 
fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,   calm  and  patient,    Nature 

keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  green 
ness  sweeps 
The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And    still    she    walks  in    golden 

hours 

Through  harvest-happy  farms, 
And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and 

flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What   mean  the  gladness  of  the 

plain, 
This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 


The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard 

of  grain 
And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah !  eyes  may   well    be    full   of 

tears, 

And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot  ; 
But  even-paced   come  round  the 

years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 


She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter 

grief, 

With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 
She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and 

leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 


Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we 

hear 

Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm  ; 
Too  near  to  God    for   doubt    or 

fear, 
She  shares  th'  eternal  calm. 


She    knows    the    seed    lies  safe 
below 

The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 
For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 

She  waits  the  rich  return. 


She  sees  with  clearer  eye   than 

ours 

The  good  of  suffering  born, — 
The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her 

flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited 
trees 

Our  golden  prophecies  ! 


O,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of 
cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in  \ 


410  WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 

MITHRIDATES  AT  CHIOS.* 


KNOW'ST  thou,  O  slave-cursed 

land! 
How,  when  the  Chian's  cup  of 

guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,   there 

came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of 

flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its 

hilt, 

Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's 
hand? 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far  ; 

But,  not  unheard  of  awfulJove, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 

Was     answered,     when    the 

^Egean  wave 

The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the 
breath  of  war. 

"  Robbers  of  Chios !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's 

decree ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from 

the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian 

wine: 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom 

shall  be, 

In    Colchian    mines    by    Phasis 
rolling  dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky 

caves: 
The   priestess   rent    her  hair 

and  cried, 
"Woe!  woe!    The  gods   are 

sleepless-eyed  ! " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the 

slaves  of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 

'•'  The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 


So    Hellas    sang    her    taunting 

song, 
"The     fisher    in    his    net    is 

caught, 
The  Chian    hath    his  master 

bought ; " 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter 

long, 

Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking 
parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,    dumb 

years 
Bring     their     avenging    cycle 

round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught 

of  old, 

Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of    slaves    uprising,     freedom- 
crowned, 

To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge 
wet  with  their  blood  and 
tears. 


THE    PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of 

the  herds 
Of     Bally  men  a,     wakened    with 

these  words : 
"Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage, 

and  be  free  !  " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears 
from  heaven 

The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  for 
given, 
And,  wondering,  sees 

His  prison  opening  to  their  golden 
keys, 

He  rose,  a    man  who    laid    him 

down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of 

the  grave, 
And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 


*  It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when  subjugated  by  Mithridates  of  Cappadocia, 
were  delivered  up  to  their  own  slaves,  to  be  carried  away  captive  to  Colchis. 
Athenaeus  considers  this  a  just  punishment  for  their  -wickedness  in  first  introducing 
the  slave-trade  into  Greece.  From  this  ancient  villainy  of  the,  Chians  the  proverb. 
arose, "  The.  Ch&D  batfc  bought  himself,  a  master" 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 


411 


He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame 

away  ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping 

Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed, 

"  God  pardon  him  !  " 

So  went  he   forth  :  but  in   God's 

time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy 

flame ; 

And.  dying,  gave 
The  land  a'  saint  that  lost  him  as 

a  slave. 

O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and 

dumb 
Waiting   for  God,  your  hour,  at 

last,  has  come, 
And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your 

night  of  wrong  ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile 

restraint 
Of    ages ;    but,   like  Ballymena's 

saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals 

of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  re 
turn  again, 

To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bit 
ter  pain 
Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And  heal  with  freedom  what  your 
slavery  cursed. 


ANNIVERSARY   POEM. 

[Read  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends' 
Yearly  Meeting  School,  at  the  Annual 
Meeting  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  15th  6th  Mo., 
1863.] 

ONCE  more,  dear  friends,  you  meet 

beneath 
A  clouded  sky  : 
Nor  yet  the  sword  has  found  its 

sheath, 


And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the 

breath 
Of  war  floats  by. 

Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the 

ground, 

Nor  pain  from  chance  ; 
The  Eternal  order  circles  round, 
And   wave  and  storm  find  mete 

and  bound 
In  Providence. 

Full    long    our    feet  the  flowery 

ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 
Content  with  creed  and  garb  and 

phrase  : 

A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 
Led  up  to  God. 

Too    cheaply    truths,    once    pur 
chased  dear, 
Are  made  our  own  ; 
Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to 

hear 

Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 
By  others  sown  ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 

And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 
In   the   singed  mantles  that  our 
sires 

Have  dropped  below. 

But  now  the  cross  our  worthies 

bore 

On  us  is  laid  ; 

Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once 

more 
Our  faith  is  weighed. 

The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

is  calling  down 

An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thunder  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments. 

Who 

Stands  guiltless  forth  ? 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew. 


412 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

How  faint,  through  din  of  mer 
chandise 

And  count  of  gain, 
Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's 

cries ! 

How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 
Of  souls  in  pain  ! 

This  day  the   fearful    reckoning 

comes 

To  each  and  all ; 
We    hear    amidst    our    peaceful 

homes 
The  summons    of   the    conscript 

drums, 
The  bugle's  call. 

Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net 

draws 

Round  us  in  vain, 
While,    faithful    to    the    Higher 

Cause, 

We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 
Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle  brand, 

We  may  not  take  ; 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 

For  conscience'  sake. 

Why  ask  for  ease  where  all    is 
pain? 

Shall  we  alone 

Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 
When  over  Armageddon's  plain 

The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 

The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To  spare  us  ;  from  our  heads  shall 
swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 

And  light   is  mingled   with    the 

gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief  ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mer 
cies  bloom 
In  sweet  relief. 


Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 

By  word  and  deed, 
The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 

The  hearts  that  bleed  ! 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 
Where  all  our  powers 

Are  tasked    the    eager    steps    to 
guide 

Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 
THE  SLAVE  is  OURS  ! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their    freedom    in  the 

mould 
Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed 

floors 

Where  strong  men  pine, 
And,     down    the    groaning   cor 
ridors, 

Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 
The  oil  and  wine. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark 

days 

His  lot  is  cast  ? 
God's    hand    within   the    shadow 

lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of 

praise 
Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn  and  overturn,  O  outstretched 

Hand  ! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay  ; 
The    years    have    never    dropped 

their  sand 

On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 
As  ours  to-day. 

Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 
Is    Freedom's     glorious     picture 

found 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 


413 


0,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 
When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping 

eyes, 
For    suffering    give    the    victor's 

prize, 
The  crown  for  cross  ! 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the 

land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 
The    night- wind    smooths    with 

drifting  sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 

Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked 

tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his 
gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The    power    to  make  his  toiling 

days 

And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 
The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that 

With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
.   Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and 

byre 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and 

hate, 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to 

gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 


Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and 

loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their 
song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days, — 

The    triumph-note    that    Miriam 

sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening    with    Afric's    mellow 

tongue 
Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOAT 
MEN. 

O,  PRAISE  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he 

come 

T.o  set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de    Red    Sea 

waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word :  we  las'  night 

slaves ; 

To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton 

blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone  ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder 

on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We    own    de    hoe,    we    own    de 

plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton 

blow. 
We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 


414: 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  Norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell 

ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton 

blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 
So,  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door. 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton 

blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share    the   negro's 
trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny  ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude    seems     the     song ;     each 

swarthy  face, 
Flame-lightecV-,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to    think    that  hapless 

race 
Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 


That  laws  of  changeless  justice 

bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And,   close  as  sin  and  suffering 

joined, 
We  inarch  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant 
shall  be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with 

corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick 
stand 

Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Mary 
land. 

Round     about     them      orchards 

sweep, 
Apple-    and    peach-tree     fruited 

deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 
To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel 
horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early 

When  Lee  marched  over  the 
mountain  wall, — 

Over     the     mountains     winding 

down, 
Horse    and    foot,   into  Frederick 

town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty    flags  with    their    crimson 
bars, 

Flapped    in    the  morning  wind : 

the  sun 
Of  noon   looked  down,  and  saw 

not  one. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 


415 


Up    rose    old    Barbara    Frietchie 

then, 
Bowed  with   her  fourscore  years 

and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 
She   took    up  the  flag    the    men 
hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she 

set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal 

yet. 

Up    the    street    came    the    rebel 

tread , 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and 

right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his 

sight. 

"Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks 
stood  fast. 

"  Fire  !  " — out  blazed  the  rifle- 
blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and 

sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and 

gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken 

staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken 

scarf  ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window- 
sill, 

And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal 
will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray 

head, 
But  spare  your  country's   flag," 

she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of 

shame, 
Over  the  face,  of  the  leader  came  ; 


The    nobler    nature    within    him 

stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and 

word  : 


"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray 

head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !    March  on  !  "  he 

said. 


All  day  long  through  Frederick 

street 
Sounded   the   tread  of  marching 

feet : 


All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 
On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it 
well  ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset 
light 

Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good 
night. 


Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 
And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids 
no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 
Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's 
bier. 


Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave 
Flag    of    Freedom    and    Union, 
wave ! 


Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw- 
Round   thy  symbol  of  light  and 
law  ; 

And  ever  the    stars    above   look 

down 
On  thy  stars  below  in   Frederick 

town  I 


416 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


HOME  BALLADS. 
COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION.* 

THE  beaver  cut  his  timber 
With  patient  teeth  that  day, 

The  minks  were  fish- wards,  and 

the  crows 
Surveyors  of  highway, — 

When  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 
Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 

With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 
To  keep  his  waxed  ends  warm. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 
He  stitched  and  hammered  and 

sung; 
In  the   brook  he    moistened    his 

leather, 
In  a  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 

And  he  paid  the  good-wife's  reck 
oning 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 
Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine. 

The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brocken 
And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through      birches      and     scarlet 

maples 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray, — 

Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 
Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 

Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 
Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
East  and  west  and  north  and 
south  ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 

*  This  ballad  was  written  on  the  occa 
sion  of  a  Horticultural  Festival.  Cob 
bler  Keezar  was  a  noted  character  among 
the  first  settlers  in  the  valley  of  the  Mer- 


Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 
With   its  farm-house  rude  and 

new, 

And    tree-stumps,    swart    as    In 
dians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 
No  vintage-song  he  heard, 

And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 
The  merry  violin  stirred. 

"  Why  should  folk  be  glum,"  said 

Keezar, 

"  When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 
And  the  painted  woods  are  laugh 
ing 
At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?  " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cob 
bler 

What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 
Who  travailed   in  pain  with  the 

births  of  God, 

And     planted     a     state     with 
prayers, — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 
Smiting  the  heathen  horde, — 

One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 
And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 
Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 

Little  he  cared  for  church  or  state, 
Or  the    balance    of    right    and 
wrong. 

"T   is  work,    work,    work,"    he 

muttered — 
''And     for    rest    a    snuffle    of 

psalms  !  " 

He  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 
With    his    brown    and    waxen 
palms. 

"  O  for  the  purple  harvests 

Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 
For      the     merry     grape-stained 

maidens, 

And    the    pleasant  songs  they 
sung  I 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 


"  0  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 
Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 
For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to 

blow 

Down    the     grand     old    river 
Rhine ! " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so 

gray. 
"  Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 


And     the 
away  ! " 


Rhine    flows    far 


But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cob 
bler  ; 
He  could  call  the  birds  from  the 

trees, 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the 

ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming 
bees. 

All    the    virtues    of    herbs    arid 

metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he 

knew, 
And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World 

mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 
And  the  lapstone  on  his  kneo 

Had  the    gift    of    the    Mormon's 

goggles 
Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moon 
stone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 

To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 

The  marvellous  stone  gave  he, — 
And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 

Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 

He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 
He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 

And   he  counted   the  long  years 

coming 
By  twenties  and  by  tens, 


417 
years,"     quoth 


"  One    hundred 
Keezar, 

"  And  fifty  have  I  told  : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  !  " 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  black 
ness 

Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 
And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 

The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 
And  river  and  ocean  joined  : 

And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the 

blue  sea-line, 
And  cold  north  hills  behind. 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 
By  many  a  steepled  town, 

By  many  a   white-walled    farm 
house, 
And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 
The  stream  no  more  ran  free  ; 

White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 
White  sails  on  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 
The  flags  were  floating  gay, 

And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 
The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 
Turned  the  brown  earth  from 

their  shares ; 

Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 
There     were     the     craftsman's 
wares. 

Golden  the  good-wife's  butter, 
Ruby  her  currant-wine  ; 

Grand    were    the    strutting    tur 
keys, 
Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  nnd  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown 
And     the     peaches     had    stolei 

blushes 

From  the  girls  who  shook  them 
d,own., 


418 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wild- 
wood,- 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 

"  What  is  it  I  see  ?  "  said  Keezar  : 
"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 

Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 
Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and 

puppets, 

And  imps  with  horns  and  tail? 
And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flag 
ons? 
And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"  Strange    things,   I    know,   will 

happen, — 

Strange  things  the  Lord  permits; 
But  that  droughty  folk  should  be 

jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 
And  the  maiden's  step  "is  gay  ; 

Nor  sad  by  thinking,  nor  mad  by 

drinking, 
Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here  's  pleasure  without  regret 
ting, 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"  Here  's  a  priest  and  there  is  a 

quaker, — 

Do  the  cut  and  the  dog  agree? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for 

pven-wood  ? 

Pave  they  cut  down  the  gal- 
Jqwsrtree  ? 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their 

children  ? 
Would  they  own  the  graceless 

town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 

nqver  ft  witch  to  drown  ?  " 


Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay  ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 
It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 

It   plunged   through   the   leaning 

willows, 
And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 
The  magic  stone  lies  still, 

Under  the  leaning  willows, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvellous 

pictures 

Where    the    wizard's    lapstone 
sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 
When  the  river  seems  to  run 

Out  from  the  inner  glory, 
Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 
Beside  the  charmed  stream, 

And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 
Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

Thy  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the 
cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by  ! 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 
To  W.  B. 

As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds 
find  relief 

Unwittingly  from  the  great  stress 
of  grief 

And  anxious  care  in  fantasies  out- 
wrought 

From  the  hearth's  embers  flicker 
ing  low  or  caught 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 


419 


whispering  wind,  or  tread 

of  passing  feet, 
Or   vagrant    memory   calling    up 

some  sweet 
Snatch  of  old  song   or   romance, 

whence  or  why 
They  scarcely   know  or  ask, — so, 

thou  and  I, 
Nursed  in  the   faith  that  Truth 

alone  is  strong 

In    the    endurance    which    out- 
wearies  Wrong, 
With    meek    persistence  baffling 

brutal  force. 
And    trusting    God    against    the 

universe, — 
We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we 

may  not  share 
With    other    weapons    than    the 

patriot's  prayer, 
Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and 

moistened  eyes, 

The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  bv  keenest  sympathy 

for  all  " 
Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the 

living  wall 
'Twixt  law  and  treason, — in  this 

evil  day 

May   haply    find,    through    auto 
matic  play 
Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our 

pain, 
And    hearten     others    with    the 

strength  we  gain. 
I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times 

require 
No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with 

the  lyre, 

No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chlo 
roform 
To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pulses  of  the 

storm, 
But  the  stern   war-blast    rather, 

such  as  sets 
The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  b&\- 

onets, 
And    pictures  grim    as  Vernet's. 

Yet  with  these 
Some  softer  tints  may  blend,  and 

milder  keys 
Relieve    the    storm -stunned    ear. 

Let  us  keep  sweet, 


If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even 
while  jve  eat 

The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  de* 
vice 

And  half  a  century's  moral  cow* 
ardice. 

As  Niirnberg  sang  while  Witten* 
berg  defied, 

And  Kranach  painted  by  his 
Luther's  side, 

And  through  the  war-march  of 
the  Puritan 

The  silver  stream  of  Marvell's 
music  ran, 

So  let  the  household,  melodies  be 
sung, 

The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall 
be  hung, — 

So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of 
night 

And  slavery  all  our  vantage- 
ground  of  light. 

Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery, 
and  shake 

From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rat 
tlesnake, 

Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human 
skins  in  tan. 

And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the 
bones  of  man. 

And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  ban 
quets  dull 

By  drinking  whiskey  from  a  loyal 
skull, — 

But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war 
shall  cease, 

(God  grant  it  soon  !)  the  graceful 
arts  of  peace  : 

No  foes  are  conquered  who  the 
victors  teach 

Their  vandal  mariners  and  bar 
baric  speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thank 
fulness,  we  bear 

Of  the  great  common  burden  our 
full  share, 

Let  none  upbraid  us  that  the 
waves  entice 

Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some 
quaint  device. 

Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my 
pen  away 


420 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sor 
rows  of  to-day. 
Thus,  while  the  east-wind  keen 

from  Labrador 
Sings    in  the    leafless  elms,   and 

from  the  shore 

Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  mono 
tonous  roar 
Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all 

the  sky 
Is  gray  with  cloud,  home- bound 

and  dull,  I  try 
To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the 

sounds 
Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves 

on  pebbled  bounds, — 
A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with, 

such  as  might 
Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who 

at  night 
Look  from  their  hemlock  camps, 

by  quiet  cove 
Or  beach,   moon-lighted,  on  the 

waves  they  love. 
(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level 

sunset  lay 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  East 
ern  bay, 
And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and 

waves  that  rolled 
Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed 

with  ruddy  gold.) 
Something  it  has — a  flavor  of  the 

sea, 
And    the    sea's    freedom — which 

reminds  of  thee. 
Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling 

down 
From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the 

ancient  town. 
I  have  not  touched  with  warmer 

tints  in  vain, 
If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals 

one  thought  from  pain. 


HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along  ; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O     perfumed    suitor,    spare    thy 
smiles ! 


Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  : 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 
The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart    is    like   an    outbound 
ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her 

praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown 

deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that 

blow, 

And  every  fog- wreath  dim, 
And     bids     the    sea-birds    flying 

north 
Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks 
of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown    Viking    of    the    fishing- 
smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  ! — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth 
wear 

For  him  the  blush  of  shame 
Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 

Against  her  ancient  name. 

The    stream    is    brightest   at  its 

spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 
Nor    honored   less    than   he  who 

heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 
If  love  be  Fortune's  spur ; 

And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 
Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 


THE  COUNTESS. 


421 


Her    home    is  brave    in    Jaffrey 
Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle-horn. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 
The  English  ivy  twines, 

Trained  back  to*  show  in  English 

oak 
The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot 

old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown, — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's 

sword. 
And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as 
they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador  ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery- 
side, 

And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers  ; 
Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 

The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 


She     looks    across    the    harbor- 
bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly  ; 
His  greeting  from  the   Northern 

sea 
Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that 

he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken 

sails 
And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

O  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill  ; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will  I 


THE  COUNTESS. 
To  E.  W. 

I  KNOW  not,  Time   and  Space  so 

intervene, 
Whether,    still    waiting    with    a 

trust  serene, 
Thou    bearest    up    thy  fourscore 

years  and  ten, 
Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's 

citizen  ; 
But,    here    or     there,   a   pleasant 

thought  of  thee, 
Like   an   old    friend,  all  day  has 

been  with  me. 
The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy 

kindly  hand 
Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the 

wonder-land 
Of  thought    and   fancy,   in  gray 

manhood  yet 
Keeps  green   the   memory  of  his 

early  debt. 
To-day,  when  truth  and  falsehood 

speak  their  words 
Through    hot-lipped    cannon  and 

the  teeth  of  swords, 
Listening  with    quickened  heart 

and  ear  intent 
To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern 

argument, 
I  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer 

note 
Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round 

me  float, 
While  through  the  hot  gleam  of 

our  civil  strife 

Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  sim 
pler  life. 

As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 
Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  home 
stead  well, 
And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds 

that  toss 
Above    his    head     the    live-oak's 

beard  of  moss, 
So,   in  our  trial-time,  and  under 

skies 
Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's 

paradise, 
I  wait  and   watch,  and    let  my 

fancy  stray 


422 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Ar 
cadian  day  ; 

And  hovvsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped 
in  dreams 

Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints 
the  sunset  streams, 

The  country  doctor  in  the  fore 
ground  seems, 

Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the 
village  lanes 

Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive 
ills  and  pains. 

I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of 
my  song, 

Mindless  of  one  who  looked  there 
on  so  long  ; 

Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's 
lonely  round, 

Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and 
rocks,  and  knew  the  sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what 
the  hillside  trees 

Said  to  the  winds  that  touched 
their  leafy  keys  ; 

Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well 
could  paint 

The  village-folk,  with  all  their 
humors  quaint, — 

The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall 
eyed  roan, 

Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair 
backward  blown  ; 

The  tough  old  boatman,  half  am 
phibious  grown  ; 

The  muttering  witch-wife  of  the 
gossip's  tale, 

And  the  loud  straggler  levying 
his  black  mail, — 

Old  customs,  habits,  superstitions, 
fears, 

All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty 
years, 

To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my 
lay, 

And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I 
cannot  pay, 


OVER  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 
Between  its  houses  brown. 

To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 
The    street    comes     straggling 
down. 


You  catch  a  glimpse  through  the 
birch  and  pine 

Of  gable,  roof  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 

The     river's    steel-blue    crescent 

curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The    single    broken    wharf    that 

serves 
For  sloop  and  gundelbw. 

With    salt    sea-scents    along    its 
shores 

The  heavy  hay -boats  crawl, 
The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 

In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 
The  idle  shad-net  dries  ; 

The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 
Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You   start, — a    skipper's    horn    is 

blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At    times    a    blacksmith's    anvil 
sounds 

With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 
Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 

Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 

Left  by  the  stream  whose  waves 

are  years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and 
rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  Ids  patient  lines, 
The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 

Content  to  hear  the  murmuring 

pines 
Instead  of  railroad -train, 


THE  COUNTESS. 


423 


Go  whe-e,  along  the  tangled  steep 
That  slopes  against  the  west, 

The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 
In  still  profounder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery 

plume, 

The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 
And  break  the  web   of  brier  and 

bloom 
From  name  and  epitaph. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 
Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 

The  dry,  old  names  that  common 

breath 
Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and 
part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 
And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 

Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 
Of  fourscore  years  can  say 

What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 
Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 
Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 

And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 
Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He    knelt    with  her  on  Sabbath 

morn, 
He     worshipped     through     her 


And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and 

scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 
By  homeliest  duties  tried, 

In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 
Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid  ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

tier  simple  ways  his  own. 


Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 
To  harvest-field  or  dance 

He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies. 
The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not 

less 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn 
Caught  in  her  sweet  unconscious 
ness 
What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  ac 
cord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  when   summer's  day 

was  o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's 

shore, 
The  river's  moonlit  sail ! 

Ah  !  life  a  brief,  though  love  be 
long  ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier. 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year  ! 

Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  ; 

Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 
Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village 
maid, 

In  death  still  clasp  their  hands  ; 
The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 

Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside 
grave, 

Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 
Forever  to  her  western  wave 

Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne ! 

O  Love  ! — so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower 

room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
man  heart  takes  bloom  I—* 


424 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 
Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 

White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 
Dropped  down  to  us  from  heav 
en  ! — 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and 

stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 
Breathes    out    from    fern    and 
brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall 

twine 

The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 
Fall  sweetly  here,  O  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  show 
ers  ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee. 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea ! 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

NAPLES.— 1860. 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT   C.    WATER- 
STON,  OF  BOSTON. 

I  GIVE  thee  joy !— I  know  to  thee 
The  dearest  spot  on  earth  must  be 
Where  sleeps  thy  loved  one  by  the 
summer  sea  ; 

Where,  near  her  sweetest  poet's 
tomb, 

The   land  of  Virgil  gave   thee 

room 

To  lay  thy  flower  with  her  per 
petual  bloom. 

I  know  that  when  <;he  sky  shut 

down 
Behind  thee  on  the  gleaming 

town, 
On  Baise's  baths  and  Posilippo's 

Cl'QWU  J 


And,   through    the    tears,    the 

mocking  day 
Burned  Ischia's  mountain  lines 

away, 
And  Capri  melted    in  its  sunny 

bay,— 

Through  thy  great  farewell  sor 
row  shot 

The    sharp    pang    of  a    bitter 

thought 

That  slaves  must  tread  around  that 
holy  spot. 

Thou  knewest  not  the  land  was, 

blest 

In  giving  thy  beloved  rest, 
Holding  the  fond  hope  closer  to 

her  breast 

That    every  sweet  and  saintly 

grave 
Was  freedom's  prophecy,  and 

gave 
The  pledge  of  Heaven  to  sanctify 

and  save. 

That    pledge   is  answered.    To 

thy  ear 
The    unchained    city  sends    its 

cheer, 

And,   tuned  to  joy,   the  muffled 
bells  of  fear 

Ring  Victor  in.     The  land  sits 

free 

And  happy  by  the  summer  sea, 
And  Bourbon  Naples  now  is  Italy  ! 

She   smiles  above    her    broken 

chain 
The  languid  smile  that  follows 

pain, 
Stretching  her  cramped  limbs  to 

the  sun  again. 

O,  joy  for  all,  who  hear  her  call 
From  Camaldoli's  convent  wall 
And  Elmo's   towers  to  freedom's 
carnival  ! 

A  new  life  breathes  arnong  her 


THE  WAITING. 


425 


And  olives,  like  the  breath  of 

pines 

Blown  downward  from  the  breezy 
Apennines. 

Lean,  O  my  friend,  to  meet  that 

breath, 

Rejoice  as  one  who  witneseth 
Beauty  from  ashes  rise,  and  life 
from  death  ! 

Thy  sorrow  shall  no  more  be 

pain, 

Its  tears  shall  fall  in  sunlit  rain, 
Writing  the  grave  with  flowers  : 
"  Arisen  again  !  " 


THE  SUMMONS. 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid 

eye 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 
I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 
And  in  the  noon-time  shadows 
lie. 

I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 
The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened 

wheat, 

The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of 
heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 
A  deeper    sound    that    drowns 

them  all, — 
A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with 

tears, 

The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
*      The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul ! 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet 

blows ; 

I  know  the  words  and  counter 
sign  ; 

Wherever    Freedom's     vanguard 
goes, 

Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or 

foes, 

I  know  the  place  that  should  be 
mine. 


Shamed   be  the  hands   that  idly 

fold, 

And  lips  that  woo  the  reed's  ac 
cord  , 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has 

tolled 
For  true  with  false  and  new  with 

old 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord.1 

O  brothers  !  blest  by  partial  Fate 
With  power  to  match  the  will 

and  deed, 
To  him  your  summons  comes  too 

late 
Who   sinks   beneath    his  armor's 

weight, 

And  has  no  answer  but  God 
speed  1 


THE  WAITING. 

I  WAIT  and  watch :    before    my 

eyes 
Methinks  the  night  grows  thin 

and  gray  ; 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 
To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day  ! 

Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound 

in  trance 
I  hear  the  day  sounds  swell  and 

grow, 

And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after   troop,   in    swift   ad 
vance, 

The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of 
snow ! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 
I  know   what  mighty   work  is 

theirs ; 

I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet, 
The   threshing-floors    of    God    to 

beat, 

And  speed  them  with  unworthy 
prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 
The  steps  of  progress  wait  for 
me : 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 

The  planet's    impulse  well    may 

spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 
And    yet   not    mine  if    under 
stood  ; 

For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its 

wine, 

And  God  shall  make  the  balance 
good. 

O  power  to  do  !     O  baffled  will ! 

O  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one; 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  ful 
fil 

The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 
And  good  but  wished  with  God 
is  done ! 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES. 
I. 

FRANCONIA  FROM  THE  PEMIGE- 

WASSET. 

ONCE  more,  O  Mountains  of  the 

North,  unveil 
Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy 

mantles  by  ! 
And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that 

seek  ye  fail, 
Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of 

the  sky 
Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the 

sunshine  weave 

Its  golden  network  in  your  belt 
ing  woods, 
Smile  down  in   rainbows  from 

your  falling  floods, 
And    on    your    kingly   brows    at 

morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !     So  shall  my 

soul  receive 

Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and 
and  strength, 


Your  un forgotten  beauty  inter 
fuse 

My  common  life,  you*  glorious 

shapes  and  hues 

And  sun-dropped  splendors  at  my 
bidding  come, 

Loom  vast  through  dreams,  and 

stretch  in  billowy  length 
From  the  sea-level  of  my  Rowland 
home ! 


They  rise  before  me  !    Last  night's 
thunder-gust 

Roared  not  in  vain  :  for  where  its 
lightnings  thrust 

Their  tongues   of   fire,  the   great 
peaks  seem  so  near, 

Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly 
bold  and  clear, 

I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the 
pines  to  hear, 

The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of 
browsing  deer. 

The  clouds  that  shattered  on  you. 

slide-worn  walls 
And    splintered    on    the    rocks 
their  spears  of  rain 

Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  water 
falls, 

Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of 
the  woods 

Glad  with  the    laughter  of   the 
chasing  floods, 

And  luminous  with  blown  spray 
and  silver  gleams, 

While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry- 
lipped  streams 

Sing  to  the  freshened  meadow- 
lands  again. 

So,  let  rne  hope,  the  battle-storm 

that  beats 
The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may 

pass  away 

With  its  spent  thunders  at  the 
break  of  day, 

Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave, 

as  it  retreats, 
A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky 

behind, 

Blown    crystal  clear    by    Free 
dom's  Northern  wind ! 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES. 


42T 


II. 


MONADNOCK  FROM  WACHUSET. 


I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the 

sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her 

who  led 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential 

tread, 
Into    that     mountain     mystery. 

First  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset;    next  the 

wavy  lines 
Of  far  receding  hills  ;  and  yet 

more  far, 
Monadnock     lifting    from     his 

night  of  pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to  the  even 
ing  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset 

laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose 

warm  light  made 
His  aureole  ;    and   o'er  him, 

sharp  and  clear, 

Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid- 
launching  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone 

upon 
By  the    fierce    glances    of  the 

sunken  sun, 
Menaced    the    darkness  with 

its  golden  spear  ! 
So  twilight   deepened  round  us. 

Still  and  black 
The    great     woods    climbed    the 

mountain  at  our  back  ; 
And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the 

lingering  day 
On   the  shorn    greenness    of  the 

clearing  lay, 
The  brown  old  farm-house  like 

a  bird's  nest  hung. 
With  homelife  sounds  the  desert 

air  was  stirred  : 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill 

we  heard. 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool, 

sweet  well, 

The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as 
they  fell ; 


Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cat 
tle  lowed  ;  the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath 

the  merry  weight 
Of  sun-brown   children,    listen 
ing,  while  they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper- 
call  to  hear  ; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane, 

in  tinklings  clear, 
The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow 
bell  rung. 
Thus    soothed    and    pleased,   our 

backward  path  we  took, 
Praising    the     farmer's     home. 

He  only  spake, 
Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the 

lake, 
Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off 

is  most  near  : 
"Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a 

pleasant  look  ; 
I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's 

sake, 
Who  lived  and  died    here  in 

the  peace  of  God  !  " 
The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pon 
dered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern 

flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow 

deepest  sank, 
Doubling     the    night    along    our 

rugged  road  : 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than 

his  abode, — 
The  inward    life  than  Nature's 

raiment  more  ; 

And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown- 
tinted  hills, 
The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed 

dwarfed  and  dim 
Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  hu 
man  will 

Meekly  in  the  Eternal   foot 
steps  trod, 

Making  her  homely  toil  and  house 
hold  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of 

praise 

Swelling    from   angel   lips  and 
harps  of  seraphim  ! 


428 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


OUR  RIVER. 

FOR  A  SUMMER  FESTIVAL  AT  "  THE 
LAURELS"  ON  THE  MERRIMACK. 

ONCE  more   on  yonder  laurelled 

height 
The      summer      flowers     have 

budded ; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden 

light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded  ; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of 

Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 

We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river  : 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

The  west  wind  down  it  blowing, 
As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing, — 
And  bore    its    memory  o'er    the 
deep, 

To  soothe  a  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with 

streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose  music   murmurs   through 

our  dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory  : 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are 

fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,   poet-tuned,   the   Doon  and 

Ayr 
Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  unpicttired  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it, — 
We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 

Above  it,  warm  with  blessing, 
And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 

Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  Sun-God  holds  the  flocks 
That  graze  its  shores  in  keep 
ing  ; 


No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 
The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 

Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 
The  beautiful  and  human  ; 

The  heathen    streams  of  Naiads 

boasts, 
But  ours  of  man  and  women. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing  ; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing  : 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn, 

Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley-born 

Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud, — the  bugle 

fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor  ; 
The   war-storm   shakes  the  solid 

hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger  : 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled 

in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And    hands    then    stained    with 

fruits  and  flowers 
Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers 

bloom  on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing, — 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His    pine-trees    whisper,    **  Trust 

and  wait !  " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or 

fate 
His  love  is  underlying. 

And  thou,  O  Mountain-born  ! — no 
more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 


429 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S 
PRAYER. 

ANDREW    RYKMAN    's    dead    and 
gone  : 

You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 

Read  his  name  and  date. 

"  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears" 
Runs  the  legend    through   the 
moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  death  is  loss." 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 
Singing  birds    and  soft   winds 
stray  : 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer  ! 
Prayer,    that,   when    my    day    is 

done, 

And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim,— 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 
And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 
Melt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father  !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With    my    needs,     and    nothing 

more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 
With  a  step  assured  I  come  ; 
Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 


Of  my  life-companion,  Fear  ; 
Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 
From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 
Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 
Never  shapen  nor  outlined  : 
From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 
And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 
Yet,  O  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 
Of  Thy  tender  providence 
Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 
And  confirms  the  feeble  knee  ; 
And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 
Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 
Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 
Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 
Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 
Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 
When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear 

Thee, 
And    Thy    blessed    Christ    seems 

near  me, 

With  forgiving  look,  as  when 
He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 
Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 
To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love, — 
That  to  Thee,  O  Lord  of  all  ! 
Nothing  can  of  chance  befall : 
Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 
Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are  ; 
Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 
Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man, 
There  is  pity  in  Thine  eyes, 
But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 
Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 
Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 
Not    for    show    of    power,    was 

wrought 

Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 
Never  careless  hand  and  vain 
Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and 

pain  ; 

No  immortal  selfishness 
Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless  : 
Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 
That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 
Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 
Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 
But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 
Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 
Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 
Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 
Shadow  and  illusion  go  ; 
All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 


430 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Now, contract  and  now  dilate. 
In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 
Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee  ; 
In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 
Thou  alone  art  permanence  ; 
All  without  Thee  only  seems, 
All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 
Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 
Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 
Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 
Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate, — 
Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 
Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 
Or  that  good  can  only  live 
Of  the  bad  conservative, 
And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 
Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt ; 
All  is  well,  I  know,  without ; 
I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 
I  alone  the  music  jar. 
Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 
And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 
I  am  groping^for  the  keys 
Of  the  heavenly  harmonies  ; 
Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 
Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 
Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 
Have  not  sought  my  door  in  vain  ; 
I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 
To  the  human  brotherhood  ; 
Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 
That    which    others    might     not 

share. 

I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame 
Praise    that    paineth   more    than 

blame, 

Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 
Virtuous  by  accident, 
Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 
Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 
Only  strong  for  lack  of  test, — 
What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 
Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 
Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 
On  my  neighbor  un forgiven  ? 
Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 
Comes  a  saint  unrecognized  ; 
Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 
Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat ; 
Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 
All  the  grace  of  holiness  ; 


Nor,   through   shame   or  self-dis 
trust, 

Less  1  love  the  pure  and  just. 
Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine: 
What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine  ?— 
Whatsoe'er  I  fain^  would  boast 
Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 
Thou,  O  Elder  Brother  !  who 
In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 
Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by 

these 

Our  most  sad  infirmities, 
Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 
In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 
And  between  the  soul  and  sense 
Reconcile  all  difference, 
Change    the  dream    of    me    and 

mine 

For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 
And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and 

strife, 

Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 
Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 
In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 
Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 
Dim,  seonian  periods, 
Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 
Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee, 
And  to  them  in  Thee  allied 
Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  forme 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold  ; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 
I  can  only  urge  the  plea, 
"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  ! " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame. 
Not  for  me  the  crown  of  gold, 
Palms,  and  harpings  manifold; 
Not  for  en-ing  eye  and  feet 
Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 
What  Thou  wilt,  O  Father,  give  ! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 
If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 
In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
If  I  may  not,  sin-defiled, 
Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
As  an  hired  servant  be  ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine  ; 


THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL. 


431 


Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace  : 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on  ; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be. 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do  ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  tiling  I  meant ; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy ; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray, 
Are  we  wiser,  better  grown, 

That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 
Make  his  prajrer  our  own  ? 


THE  CRY  OF  A   LOST  SOUL.* 

IN  that  black  forest,  where,  when 

day  is  done, 
With  a  snake's  stillness  glides  the 

Amazon 
Darkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising 

sun, 

A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of 
the  wood, 

The  long,  despairing  moan  of  soli 
tude 

And  darkness  and  the  absence  of 
all  good, 

*  Lieut.  Herndon's  Report  of  the  Ex 
ploration  of  the  Amazon  has  a  striking 
description  of  the  peculiar  and  melan 
choly  notes  of  a  bird  heard  by  night  on 
the  shores  of  the  river.  The  Indian 
guides  called  it  "  The  Cry  of  a  lost  Soul "  1 


Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound 

so  drear, 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear, 
His  heart  stands  still  and  listens 

like  his  ear. 

The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead- 
bell  toll, 

Starts,  drops  his  oar  against  the 
gunwale's  thole, 

Crosses  himself,  and  whispers, 
"  A  lost  soul!" 

"  No,  Senor,  not  a  bird.  I  know 
it  well, — 

It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  in 
fidel 

Or  cursed  heretic  that  cries  from 
hell. 

"  Poor  fool !  with  hope  still  mock 
ing  his  despair. 

He  wanders,  shrieking  on  the  mid 
night  air 

For  human  pity  and  for  Christian 
prayer. 

"Saints  strike  him  dumb!    Our 

Holy  Mother  hath 
No  prayer  for  him  who,  sinning 

unto  death, 
Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of 

God's  wrath ! " 

Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel 
lie, 

Lending  new  horror  to  that  mourn 
ful  cry. 

The  voyager  listens,  making  no 
reply. 

Dim  burns  the  boat-lamp :  shad 
ows  deepen  round, 

From  giant  trees  with  snakelike 
creepers  wound, 

And  the  black  water  glides  with 
out  a  sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  se 
cret  sense 

Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  in 
tents, 

And  an  eternal  good  in  Provi 
dence  » 


432 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Lifts  to  the  starry  calm  of  heaven 
his  eyes ; 

And  lo  !  rebuking  all  earth's  omi 
nous  cries, 

The  Cross  of  pardon  lights  the 
tropic  skies  ! 

'*  Father  of  all !  "  he    urges    his 

strong  plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all :  thy  erring  child 

may  be 
Lost  to  himself ,  but  never  lost  to 

Thee ! 

"  All  souls  are  Thine;  the  wings 

of  morning  bear 
None  from  that  Presence  which  is 

everywhere, 
Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou 

art  there. 

"  Through  sins  of  sense,  perversi 
ties  of  will, 

Through  doubt  and  pain,  through 
guilt  and  shame  and  ill, 

Thy  pitying  eye  is  on  Thy  creature 
still. 

"Wilt  thou    not    make,  Eternal 

Source  and  Goal ! 
In   thy   long  years,   life's  broken 

circle  whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a 

lost  soul?" 


ITALY. 

ACROSS  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 

Of  nations  in  the  intervals 
Of  wind  and  wave.     Their  blood 

and  bones 
Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by 

thrones, 

And  sucked  by  priestly  canni 
bals. 

I    dreamed    of    freedom    slowly 

gained 
By  martyr  meekness,  patience, 

faith. 
And  lo  !  an  athlete  grimly  stained, 


With      corded     muscles     battle- 
strained, 

Shouting  it   from  the  fields  of 
death  ! 

I  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the 

sight, 

Among    the    clamoring    thou 
sands  mute, 

I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 
And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under 
foot. 

I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its 

crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will 

form 
To  smite  them  clear  ;  that  Nature 

must 

The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 
Though    with    the    earthquake 
and  the  storm. 

God  reigns,  and  let  the  earth  re 
joice  ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb    are    the    organs    of    my 

choice ; 

He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 
His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of 
man  ! 

Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 
Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be 

ours, 

To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 
Its  sword  and  spear  to  rust  away, 
And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with 
flowers  ! 


THE  RIVER  PATH. 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still  ; 

No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk    of  twilight    round  us 

grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew  ; 


A  MEMORIAL. 


433 


For,  from  us,  ere  the    day  was 

done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified, — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the 

gloom : 
With     them    the    sunset's    rosy 

bloom ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vis 
tas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we 

trod 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon 

or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought 

was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright 
shore 

Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  be 
fore  ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to 

hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear  ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from 

night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

Through  their    green    gates    the 

sunshine  showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward 

flowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it 

rolled  ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with 

gold; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  I 


14  So,"  prayed  we,  "  when  our  feet 

draw  near 
The  river,  dark  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with 

dew, 
O  Father!— let    thy   light    break 

through  ! 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge   with   faith  the  sunless 
tide  I 

'  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 

"And  in  thy  beckoning  angels 
know 

The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  be 
low  1  " 


A  MEMORIAL. 
M.  A.  c. 

O  THICKER,  deeper,  darker  gix>w- 

ing, 

The  solemn  vista  to  the  tomb 
Must    know    henceforth    another 

shadow. 
And  give  another  cypress  room. 

In  love  surpassing  that  of  brothers, 
We  walked,  O  friend,  from  child 
hood's  day  ; 

And  looking  back  o'er  fifty  sum 
mers, 

Our  foot-prints  track  a  common 
way. 

One  in  our    faith,   and  one  our 

longing 
To  make  the  world  within  our 

reach 

Somewhat  the  better  for  our  liv 
ing, 

And  gladder    for    our  human 
speech. 

Thou  heardst  with  me  the  far-off 
voices, 


434 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


The  old  beguiling  song  of  fame, 
But  life  to  thee  was  warm  and 

present, 
And  love   was    better    than  a 

name. 

To  homely  joys    and  loves  and 

friendships 

Thy  genial  nature  fondly  clung  ; 
And  so  the  shadow  on  the  dial 
Ran  back  and  left  thee  always 
young. 

And  who  could  blame  the  gener 
ous  weakness 

Which,  only  to  thyself  unjust, 
So  overprized  the  worth  of  others, 
And  dwarfed  thy  own  with  self- 
distrust  ? 

All  hearts    grew  warmer  in   the 

presence 

Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own , 
Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest 
sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and 

prelude 
Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly 

words  ; 

In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest- 
chambers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds  ! 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and 

fashion 

Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace; 
To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 
And  light     with   thought     the 
maiden's  face. 

O'er  all  the    land,   in  town  and 

prairie, 

With  bended  heads  of  mourn 
ing,  stand 
The  living  forms  that   owe  their 

beauty 

And    fitness     to    thy    shaping 
hand. 

Thy  call  has  come  in  ripened  man 
hood, 


The  noonday  calm  of  heart  and 

mind, 
While  I,  who  dreamed  of  thy  re^ 

maining 

To  mourn  me,  linger  still  be- 
hind  : 

Live  on,   to    own,   with    self -up 
braid  ing, 
A  debt  of  love  still  due   from 

me, — 

The  vain  remembrance  of  occa 
sions, 
Forever  lost,  of  serving  thee. 

It  was  not  mine  among  thy  kindred 
To     join     the     silent     funeral 

prayers, 

But  all  that  long  sad  day  of  sum 
mer 

My  tears  of  mourning  dropped 
with  theirs. 

All  day  the  sea-waves  sobbed  with 

sorrow, 
The   birds   forgot    their  merry 

trills  ; 

All  day  I  heard  the  pines  lament 
ing  _ 

With  thine  upon  thy  homestead 
hills. 

Green  be  those  hillside  pines  for 
ever, 

And  green  the  meadowy  low 
lands  be, 
And    green     the    old     memorial 

beeches, 

Narne-carven  in  the  woods  of 
Lee! 

Still  let  them  greet  thy  life  com 
panions 
Who  thither  turn  their  pilgrim 

feet, 

In  every  mossy  line  recalling 
A  tender  memory  sadly  sweet. 

O  friend!    if  thought  and  sense 

avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou 

art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 


HYMN. 


435 


Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 
Thine  the  green  pastures,  blos 
som-sown, 

And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 
As  sweet  and  tender    as    thy 
own. 

Thou  com'st  not  from  ths  hush  and 

shadow 

To  meet  us,  but  to  thee  we  come  ; 
With    thee     we    never    can    be 

strangers. 

And  where  thou  art  must  still 
be  home ! 


HYMN. 

SUNG  AT  CHRISTMAS  BY  THE 
SCHOLARS  OF  ST.  HELENA'S  IS 
LAND,  S.  C. 

O  none  in  all  the  world  before 

Were  ever  glad  as  we  ! 
We're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 

We're  all  at  home  and  free. 

Thou  Friend  and   Helper  of  the 
poor, 

Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 
To  open  every  prison  door, 

And  every  yoke  to  break ! 

Bend  low  thy  pitying  face  and 

mild, 

And  help  us  sing  and  pray  ; 
The  hand  that  blessed  the   little 

child, 
Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 

We  hear  no  more  the  driver's  horn, 
No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 

This  holy  day  that  saw  thee  born 
Was  never  half  so  dear. 

The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 
The  waters  brighter  smile  ; 

O  never  shone  a  day  so  glad, 
On  sweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

We  praise  thee  in  our  songs  to 
day, 
To  thee  in  prayer  we  call, 


Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight 

the  way 
Of  freedom  nnto  all. 

Come  once  again,  O  blessed  Lord  ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea  ! 
And  let  the  mainlands  hear  the 
word 

That  sets  the  islands  free  ! 


TO 
THE  MEMORY 

OF 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  IT 
DESCRIBES, 

THIS  POEM  IS  DEDICATED 
BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

"  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger 
in  the  dark,  so  Good  Spirits  which  be 
Angels  of  Light  are  augmented  not  only 
by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also 
by  our  common  VVood  Fire  :  and  as  the 
celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so 
also  this  our  Fire  of  VVood  doth  the 
same." 

COR.   AGRIPPA,  Occult  Philosophy,    Book 
I.  chap.  v. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets 

of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow  ;  and,  driving 

o'er  the  fields, 
Seems    nowhere    to    alight ;     the 

whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river 

and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the 

garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the 

courier's  feot 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the 

housemates  sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  en 
closed 

In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 
EMERSON. 

SNOW-BOUND. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 


436 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


A     sadder     light     than     waning 

moon. 
Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening 

sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A     portent     seeming     less     than 

threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 
A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 
Of   homespun    stuff    could    quite 

shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 
That     checked,    mid-vein,    the 

circling  race 
Of  life-blood   in  the   sharpened 

face, 
The  coming  of    the    snow-storm 

told. 
The   wind  blew   east  :   we   heard 

the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 
And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throb 

bing  there 
Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland 

air. 

Meanwhile    we  did    our    nightly 

chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of 

doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the 

mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass   for 

the  cows  ; 
Heard   the  horse   whinnying  for 

his  corn  ; 
And,   sharply    clashing  horn    on 

horn, 
Impatient    down    the     stanchion 

rows 
The    cattle    shake    their    walnut 

bows  ; 
While,    peering    from    his    early 

perch 
Upon     the      scaffold's      pole     of 


The    cock    his     crested     helmet 

bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge 

sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 
The     gray    day     darkened     into 

night, 


A  night  made  hoary  with  ti.e 
swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding 
storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged 
snow  : 

And  ere  the  early  bed-time  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window- 
frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes 
line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted 
ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared 
•  on  : 

The  morning  broke  without  a 
sun  ; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with 
lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning 
shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  un 
known, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder 
bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below, — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes ;  strange 
domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib 
stood, 

Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  o£  wood  : 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush- 
pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was 
road  ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high 
cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof  ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high 
aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to 
tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle, 


SNOW-BOUND. 


437 


A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted:  "Boys,  a 

path! 
Well     pleased,      (for     when     did 

farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than 

joy  ?) 

Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew  ; 
With  mittened   hands,  and  caps 

drawn  low, 
To  guard  our   necks  and    ears 

from  snow, 
We     cut      the     solid     whiteness 

through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest, 

made 

A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With   dazzling   crystal  :    we   had 

read 

Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were 

ours 

To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry 

din, 
And  roused   the   prisoned   brutes 

within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head 

out, 
And  grave    with    wonder    gazed 

about  ; 

The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed   their  tails,  and 

hooked, 
And    mild    reproach    of    hunger 

looked  ; 

The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from 

sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture 

mute, 

And  emphasized  with  stamp  of 
foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  be 
fore  ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern 
zone, 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow- 
mist  shone. 


No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian 

tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung 
oak. 

A  solitude  made  more  intense 

By  dreary  voiced  elements, 

The    shrieking    of    the    mindless 
wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying 
blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning 
beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human   life   and  thought  out 
side. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And,    in     our    lonely    life,    had 
grown 

To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the 
crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the 
west, 

The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller, 
sank 

From  sight  beneath  the  smother 
ing  bank, 

We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly 
stack 

Of    wood    against    the  chimney- 
back, — 

The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and 
thick, 

And    on  its    top  the  stout  back- 
stick  ; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart. 

And  filled  between  with  curious 
art 

The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering 
near, 

We  watched  the  first  red  blaze 
appear, 

Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught 
the  gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging 
beam, 


438 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Until      the      old,    rude-furnished 

room 
Burst,      flower-like,      into      rosy 

bloom  ; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside   the    sparkling    drift   be 
came, 
And    through    the    bare-boughed 

lilac-tree 
Our  own    warm   hearth    seemed 

blazing  free, 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels 

showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons 

glowed  ; 
While  childish   fancy,  prompt  to 

tell 

The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "  Under 

the  tree, 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily. 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea" 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full  ;  the   hill-range 

stood 

Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and 

keen, 
Dead    white,   save     where    some 

sharp  ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of    hemlocks    turned    to    pitchy 

black 
Against  the    whiteness    at  their 

back. 

For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most      fitting    that      unwarming 

light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it 

fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world   with 
out, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth 

about. 
Content  to    let    the    north-wind 

roar 

In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The   frost-line   back    with  tropic 
heat ; 


And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook    beam    and     rafter    as    it 

passed , 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney 

laughed. 

The  house-dog  on  his  paws  out 
spread 

Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's   dark  silhouette  on  the 

wall 

A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling 

feet, 

The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow. 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,   close  at  hand,   the  basket 

stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's 

wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  be 
haved  ? 

What  matter  how  the  north-wind 
raved  ? 

Blow   high,  blow   low,  not  all  its 
snow 

Could    quench    our    hearth-fire's 
ruddy  glow. 

O  Time   and   Change  ! — with  hair 
as  gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 

How  strange    it  seems,   with  so 
much  gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on  ! 

Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou 

Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now, — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 

That    fitful    firelight    paled    and 
shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 

Look   where  we  may,  the  wide 
earth  o'er, 

Those     lighted     faces    smile    no 
more. 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have 

worn , 

We  sit   beneath  their  orchard- 
trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of 
bees 


SNOW-BOUND. 


430 


And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 

We    turn    the    pages    that    they 

read, 

Their  written   words  we   linger 
o'er, 

But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 

No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 
No    step    is    on    the    conscious 
floor ! 

Yet   Love   will   dream,  and  Faith 
will  trust, 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is 
just,) 

That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet 
we  must. 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 

'The  stars   shine  through  his   cy 
press-trees  ! 

"Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 

iSTor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 

Across     the     mournful    marbles 
play  ! 

Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of 

faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  un 
known, 

That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 
And   Love   can    never   lose   its 
own  ! 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 

Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles 
told, 

Or  stammered  from  our   school- 
book  lore 

"The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden 
shore." 

How  often   since,   when    all   the 
land 

Was    clay    in    Slavery's    shaping 

hand, 
i  As  if  a  trumpet  called,  I've  heard 

Dame    Mevcy    Warren's    rousing 
word  : 

"  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 
Claim  the  first  right  which  Na 
ture  gave, 

From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage 

fly,. 

Nor  deign  to  live  a    burdened 

slave ! " 

Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
Oil  Memphremagog's  wooded  side ; 


Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp  \ 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath    St.    Francis'    hemlock^ 

trees  ; 
Again    for    him     the    moonlight 

shone 

On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone  ; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The   grandam  and   the   laughing 

girl. 

Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes 

spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee  ; 
Where  merry   mowers,  hale  and 

strong, 
Swept,   scythe    on    scythe,   their 

swaths  along 
The  low  green  prairies  of  the 

sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's 

Head, 
And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of 

Shoals 
The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood 

coals  ; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach 

made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming 

hot, 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from 

the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft 

old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel 

told 

To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to 

blow 

The  square  sail  of  the  gundalow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 
Our  mother,  while  she  turned  liar 

wheel 

Or  run  the  new-knit  stock  ing-heal, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came 

down 

At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 
And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bor« 


440 


WHlTTIElrS  POEMS. 


His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So    rich    and    picturesque    and 

free, 

(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways.) 
The  story  of  her  early  days, — 
She    made    us    welcome    to  her 

home ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us 

room  ; 
We  stole  with   her  a  frightened 

look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring- 

book, 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and 

wide 
Through  all  the   simple  country 

side  ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight 

play. 

The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The    loon's    weird    laughter    far 

away  ; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook, 

knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow 

grew, 
What    sunny    hillsides    autumn- 

browrn 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts 

down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and 

bay 

The  ducks'    black    squadron    an 
chored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling 

loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more 
grave, 

And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she 
gave 

From  painful  Sewell's  ancient 
tome, 

Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 

Of  faith  fire- winged  by  martyr 
dom, 

Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and 
quaint, — 

Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea- 
saint  1— 


Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  pre 
vailed, 
And   water-butt    and    bread-cask 

failed, 

And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 
His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 
With  dark  hints  muttered  under 

breath 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 
Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  sup 
plies. 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 
The  good    man    from  his  living 

grave, 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 
A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in 

view. 
"Take,   eat,"  he  said,    "and    be 

content ; 

These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 
By  Him  who    gave  the    tangled 

ram 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 
Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 
Was   rich   in   lore    of    fields  and 

brooks, 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 
Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum. 
In  moons  and  tides  and  weather 

wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 
And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 
By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 
Holding  the  cunning- warded  keys 
To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries  ; 
Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 
That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 
Of   beast  or    bird    had  meanings 

clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 
Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows 

told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 
What  the  sage  cranes  of    Nilus 

said  ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 
Content  to  live  where  life  began  ; 
Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 
The  little  world  of  sights  and 

sounds 
Whose     girdle    was    the    parish 

bounds, 


SNOW-BOUND. 


441 


Whereof  bis  fondly  partial  pride 
The  common  features  magnified, 
As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 
In    White    of    Selborne's    loving 

view, — 
He  told    how  teal    and    loon    he 

shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  egg  he  got, 
The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 
The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 
Till,    warming   with  the  tales  he 

told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 
The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 
From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons 

flew, 
The    partridge    drummed    i'    the 

wood,  the  mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 
In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit 

gray. 
Peered  from   the  doorway  of  his 

cell; 
The  muskrat    plied   the    mason's 

trade, 
And  tier    by    tier  his  mud-walls 

laid  ; 

And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 
The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his 

shell. 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile 

of  cheer 
And   voice   in   dreams  I  see   and 

hear, — 

The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  -denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,    lonely,  homeless,   not    the 

less 

Found   peace  in  love's   unselfish 
ness, 
And     welcome    wheresoe'er    she 

went, 

A  calm  and  gracious  element. 
Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet 

income 
And     womanly      atmosphere     of 

home, — 

Called  up  her  girlhood  memories, 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides  and,  the  summer 


Weaving  through  all  the  poor  de 
tails 

And   homespun  warp  of  circum 
stance 

A  golden  woof -thread  of  romance. 

For    well    she    kept    her    genial 
mood 

And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 

Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 

The    mirage   loomed   across    her 
way ; 

The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so 
soon 

With    others,     glistened    at    her 
noon  ; 

Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and 
care 

From  glossy  tress    to   thin    gray 
hair, 

All    unprofaned    she    held    apart 

The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 

Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of 
scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 

Her  evening  task  the  stand   be 
side  ; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 

Impulsive,    earnest,    prompt      to 
act, 

And  make  her  generous  thought 
a  fact, 

Keeping  with  many  a  light  dis 
guise 

The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

O  heart  sore- tried  !  thou  hast  the 
best 

That    Heaven    itself    could    give 
thee, — rest, 

Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and 

things  ! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing 

went 

With    thee    beneath     the    low 
green  tent 

Whose    curtain    never     outward 
swings ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 
Against  the    household  bosom 
lean, 


442 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  deaiest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,   sweet,  asking 

eyes, 
Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless 

green 

And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
O,  looking   from    some  heavenly 

hill, 
Or   from  the  shade  of  saintly 

palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those    large    eyes  behold   me 

still  ? 

With  me  one  little  year  ago  : — 
The  chill   weight  of  the   winter 

snow 
For  months  upon  her  grave  has 

lain  ; 

And   now,  when   summer  south- 
winds  blow 
And  brier  and  harebell   bloom 

again, 
I    tread   the   pleasant    paths    we 

trod, 

I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  sjhe  leaned,  too  frail  and 

weak 
The   hillside  flowers  she   loved  to 

seek, 

Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  con 
tent. 
The  birds  are  glad ;  the  brier-rose 

fills 
The  air   with   sweetness  ;  all  the 

hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded 

sky; 

But  still  1  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should 

be  nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird 

that  sings. 

And  yet,  dear  heart !  remember 
ing  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What    change    can    reach    the 

wealth  I  hold  ? 
What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl 

a.nd  gold 


Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with 

me? 

And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 
Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows 

grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night   that 

soon 

Shall   shape  and   shadow  over 
flow, 

I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 
Shall    I    not    see   thee   waiting 

stand, 
And,  white   against   the  evening 

star, 

The  welcome   of  thy  beckoning, 
hand  ? 

Brisk   wielder   of   the   birch    and 

rule, 

The  master  of  the  district  school 
Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place, 
Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 
Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce 

appeared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 
He    played    the    old  and   simple 

games 
Our     modern     boyhood    scarcely 

names, 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  be 
falls 
In     classic    Dartmouth's    college 

halls. 
Born     the     wild     Northern    hills 

among, 
From  whence  his  yeoman  father 

wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 
Not     competence     and     yet    not 

want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 
His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way  ; 
Could  doff  at  ease   his   scholar's 

gown 
To  peddle   wares    from    town  to 

town  ; 
Or   through  the   long    vacation's 

reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 
Where    all  the  droll  experience, 

found. 


SNOW-BOUND. 


443 


At  stranger   hearths  in  boarding 

round, 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 
The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty 

night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment   of    blind-man's- 
buff, 
And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits 

paid, 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 
Happy    the     snow-locked    homes 

wherein 

He  turned  his  merry  violin, 
Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 
Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding 

yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 
Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 
Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and 

Rome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 
And    little   seemed    at    best    the 

odds 
'Tvvixt    Yankee    pedlers  and  old 

gods; 

Where  Piridus-born  Araxes  took 
The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 
And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 
Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A    careless    boy    that    night    he 

seemed  ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And     air    of    one     who     wisely 

schemed, 
And  hostage    from  the  future 

took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of 

book. 
Large-brained,         clear-eyed, — of 

such  as  he 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody 

trail, 

Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit 

strike, 

Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike  ; 
Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid 

sloth, 


Which    nurtured  Treason's  mon 
strous  growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible  ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's 

will, 
For    blind    routine,    wise-handed 

skill  ; 
A    school-house    plant   on   every 

hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines 

thence 

The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  : 
Till    North    and    South    together 

brought 
Shall     own    the     same     electric 

thought, 

In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  un resentful  rivalry, 
Harvest   the  fields  wherein  they 

fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night 
Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes 

the  light. 
Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not 

young, 

The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 
And  words  of  meekness  scarcely 

told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold, 
Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning 

guide, 

Its  milder  features  dwarf ed  beside 
Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 
She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 
A    not     unf eared,     half- welcome 

guest, 
Rebuking     with     her      cultured 

phrase 
Our    homeliness    of    words    and 

ways. 
A    certain  pard-like,  treacherous 

grace 
Swayed    the    lithe    limbs    and 

drooped  the  lash, 
Lent    the     white     teeth     their 

dazzling  flash  ; 
And   under   low   brows,    black 

with  night, 


444 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous 

light  : 
The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her 

face 
Presaging      ill     to     him     whom 

Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or 

hate. 

A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and 

sense, 

She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded 

wrist 

Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist  ; 
The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her 

eyes 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  sur 

prise. 

Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Know  every  change  of  scowl  and 

pout; 
And  the  sweet  voice  had    notes 

more  high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 

Since    then    what    old  cathedral 

town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and 

gown, 
What  convent-gate  has    held    its 

lock 
Against    the    challenge    of    her 

knock  ! 
Through  Smyrna's  plague-husked 

thoroughfares, 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 
Gray    olive    slopes    of  hills    that 

hem 
Thy   tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusa 

lem, 

Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their 

way  ; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and 


She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 


With    hope  each  day   renewed 
and  fresh, 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the 

flesh,    • 

Whereof  she  dreams  and  proph 
esies  ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may 

be,    N 
The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her 

go  ! 

The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 
The  hidden  springs  we  may  not 

know. 

Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 
What  threads  the  fatal  sisters 

spun, 
Through  what  ancestral  years  has 

run 

The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born, 
What   forged  her  cruel  chain  of 

moods, 

What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 
And  held    the  love  within  her 

mute, 
What  mingled    madness    in    the 

blood, 

A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 
Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 
The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 
To  show  what  metes  and  bounds 

should  stand 

Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and    Provi 
dence. 

Divide  the  circle  of  events  ; 
But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is 

just, 

Merciful,  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 
That    He    remembereth    we   are 
dust! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling 

low, 

Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 
The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in 

view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 


SNOW-BOUND. 


445 


Pointed  with  mutely-warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle 

broke  : 

My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse 

gray 

And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 
Then    roused    himself    to     safely 

cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with    ashes 

over. 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother 

laid 
The    work   aside,    her    steps  she 

stayed 

One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and 

health, 
And    love's     contentment     more 

than  wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment 

seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous 

heart, 
O'er-prompt  to  do    with  Heaven 

its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter 

night, 
For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth 

and  light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 

The  wind  that  round  the  gables 
roared, 

With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 

Which  made  our  very  bedsteads 

rock. 

i  We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards 
1  tost, 

The  board-nails  snapping   in  the 
frost ; 

And  on  us,  through  the  un plas 
tered  wall, 

Felt  the   light  sifted   snow-flakes 
fall. 

But  sleep  stole  on ,  as  sleep  will  do 

When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is 
new  ; 

Faint    and  more    faint  the    mur 
murs  grew, 


Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They    softened  to    the    sound    of 

streams. 

Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And    lapsing      waves    on    quiet 

shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the 

shout 

Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ; 
And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing 

near 
To  break    the   drifted    highways 

out. 
Down  the  long  hillside    treading 

slow 

We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 
Shaking    the    snow     from    heads 

uptost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with 

frost. 
Before    our    door    the  straggling 

train 
Drew    up,    an     added    team    to 

gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a- 

cold, 
Passed,    with    the    cider-mug, 

their  jokes 
From    lip    to  lip ;  the    younger 

folks 
Down      the     loose      snow-banks, 

wrestling,  rolled, 
Tli en  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 
O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged 

ravine, 
And      woodland      paths     that 

wound  between 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter- 
weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,      drawn      by       Nature's 

subtlest  law, 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men 

saw 
Sweet    doorway    pictures   of   the 

curls 

And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  de 
fence 

Against   the   snow-ball's   compli 
ments, 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 
We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh- 
bell's  sound ; 
And,      following      where     the 

teamsters  led, 
The    wise    old    Doctor  went    his 

round, 

Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of    one    who,  prompt    at    Duty's 

call, 

Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 
That  some   poor  neighbor  sick 

abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would 

need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and 

deed, 
What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's 

sight 
The    Quaker    matron's    inward 

light, 
The     Doctor's    mail    of    Calvin's 

creed  ? 

All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 
Who,  twain    in    faith,    in  love 

agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 
So    days  went    on :  a    week    had 

passed 
Since  the  great  world  was  heard 

from  last. 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 
Read  and  reread  our  little  store, 
Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a 

score ; 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid, 
And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 
A  single  book  was  all  we  had,) 
Where     Ellwood's    meek,    drab- 
skirted  Muse, 

A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 
Sang,   with  a  somewhat  nasal 

whine, 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 
At    last    the    floundering  carrier 

bore 

The  village  paper  to  our  door. 
Lo  I   broadening    outward  as  we 

read, 


To    warmer    zones    the    horizon 

spread  ; 

In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 
Before    us    passed      the    painted 

Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 
In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow  ! 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 
Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and 

rain, 

Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  knell  and  dirge  of 

death ; 

Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 
And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain, 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us 

beat ; 

The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  rnelfced  in  the  genial  glow  ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked 

door, 
And  all  the  [world  was  ours  once 

more  ! 

Clasp,    Angel    of    the    backward 

look 

And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 
And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book  ; 
The    weird    palimpsest    old    and 

vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the   spectral 

past ; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and 

glow 

The  characters  of  joy  and  woe  ; 
The      monographs     of     outlived 

years, 
Or    smile-illumed    or    dim    with 

tears, 
Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to 

death, 
And     haunts     of     home,    whose 

vistaed  trees 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVER-MOUTH. 


447 


Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 
With     the     white     amaranths 
underneath. 

Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 
The  restless  sands' incessant  fall, 

Importunate  hours  that  hours  suc 
ceed, 

Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp 

need, 
And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 

Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy 
lids; 

I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 

The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  mid 
way 

For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears  : 

Life  greatens  in  these  later  years. 

The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life, 
Some  Truce  of  God  winch  breaks 

its  strife, 
The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather 

dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends — the 

few 
Who  yet  remain — shall  pause  to 

view 
These    Flemish   pictures  of  old 

days  ; 
Sit    with   mefcby   the   homestead 

hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory 

forth 
To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's 

blaze  ! 

And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  un 
known 

Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From     unseen     meadows     newly 

mown, 

Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the   wayside  gaze 

beyond  ; 
The  traveller   owns   the  grateful 

sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not 

whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead 

bare 
The.  bejie,diction  of  the  au\ 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVER- 
MOUTH.* 

RIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 
By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across. 

When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left 

them  free 

To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green 
moss  : 

For  there  the  river  conies  winding 
down 

From    salt   sea-meadows  and  up 
lands  brown, 

And    waves    on  the  outer  rocks 
afoam 

Shout  to  its   waters,    "  Welcome  • 
home  ! " 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 
East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the 
Boar, 

And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 
Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands 
o'er ; 

And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is 
down, 

'Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sand 
hills  brown, 

The    beach-birds  dance  and   the 
gray  gulls  wheel 

Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 
Two    hundred    years    ago    and 

more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the 

winding  ways 
Of  Hampton  river  to  that  low 

shore, 

Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land  breeze 

light, 
With   the   Boar  to  left  and  the 

Rocks  to  right. 

*See  Norfolk  County  Records,  1657,. 
New  England  Historical  and  Genealog-- 
ical  Register,  No.  II.  p.  192.  The  moral1 
lapse  of  the  first  minister  of  Hampton  at 
the  age  of  fourscore  is  referred  to  in  the 
third  number  of  the  same  periodical 
Goody  Cole,  the  Hampton  witch,  was 
twice  imprisoned  for  the  alleged  practice 
of  her  arts. 


448 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


In     Hampton     meadows,     where 

mowers  laid 
Iheir  scythes  to  the  swaths  of 

salted  grass, 
"Ah,  well-a-day!   our  hay  must 

be  made  !  " 
A  young  man  sighed,  who  saw 

them  pass. 
Loud   laughed   his  fellows  to  see 

him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless 

hand, 

Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning 

long. 

'•Fie  on  the  witch  I"  cried  a  merry 

girl, 
As  they  rounded  the  point  where 

Goody  Cole 
Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel 

atwirl, 
A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old 

soul. 
"  Oho  !  "  she  muttered,   "  ye  're 

brave  to-day  ! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh 

and  say, 
1  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits 

at  home  ; 
For  it 's  one  to  go,  but  another  to 

come  ! ' ' 

"  She's  curst,"  said  the  skipper  ; 

"  speak  her  fair  : 
I'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild 

gray  hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes 

like  a  snake." 
But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and 

shout, 
From    Hampton    river    the    boat 

sailed  out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on 

Star  seemed  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines 

of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the 

lazy  tide, 

Drawing  up  haddock  and  mot 
tled  cod  j 


They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that 

walked  beside, 
They   heard   not  the   feet  with 

silence  shod. 
But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist 

grew, 
Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and 

through  ; 
And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl 

of  a  beast, 
Ran  along   the  sky  from  west  to 

east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the 

darkening  sea 

Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading 
sun, 

But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man 

cheerily, 

"  Yet  there  is  time  for  our  home 
ward  run." 

Veering  and  tacking,  they  back 
ward  wore ; 

And  just  as  a  breath   from  the 
woods  ashore 

Blew   out   to   whisper   of  danger 
past, 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down 
at  last ! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy 

sail : 
"God   be   our  help!"   he  only 

cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke 

of  a  flail, 
Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard 

side. 
The  Shoalsmen  looked,   but  saw 

alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise 

blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's 

glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and 

air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her 

door  : 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned 

and  gone, 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the. 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVER-MOUTH. 


449 


Toss  the   foam  from  tusks  of 

stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip 

of  pain, 
Tlie  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of 

rain  : 
"They  are  lost,"    she  muttered, 

"  boat  and  crew  ! 
Lord,  forgive  me  !  my  words  were 

true ! " 

Suddenly     seaward     swept     the 

squall ; 
The    low    sun    smote    through 

cloudy  rack  ; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light, 

and  all 
The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard 

and  black. 
But    far  and   wide  tas  eye  could 

reach, 
No  life   was  seen  upon  wave  or 

beach  ; 

The  boat  that  went  out  at  morn 
ing  never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton 

river. 


O   mower,  lean    on    thy  bended 

snath, 
Look  from  the  meadows  green 

and  low : 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of 

death, 
The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of 

woe ! 

By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching 

be: 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice 

call, 
Never   the   white  hand  rise  and 

falll 

O  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a 

sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking 

day  ! 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and 

white 

From  sand  and  sea-weed  where 
they  lay ! 


The  mad   old  witch-wife  wailed 

and  wept. 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward 

crept : 
"  Crawl  back,   crawl  back,   blue 

water-snake ! 
Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts 

that  break  ! " 


Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 
In  Hampton  town  and  its  log- 
built  church, 

Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 
And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle 
and  porch. 

In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes 
were  dim, 

The  voices  faltered  that  raised  the 
hymn, 

And    Father  Dalton,    grave    and 
stern , 

Sobbed  through  his  prayers  and 
wept  in  turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not 

pray, 
Because  of  his  sin  at  fourscore 

years : 

He  stood  apart,  with  the  iron-gray 
Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to 

hide  his  tears. 
And  a  wretched  woman,  holding 

her  breath 
In  the  awful  presence  of  sin  and 

death, 
Cowered  and  shrank,   while    her 

neighbors  thronged 
To  look    on  the    dead  her  shame 

had  wronged. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  for 
bid, 

Old  Goody  Cole  looked  drearily 
round, 

As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces 

hid, 

The    mourners    walked    to  the 
bur3Ting-ground. 

She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped 
hands  fall  : 

"  Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  singers 
all ! " 


450 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  an 
swered  her : 
"  Amen  !  "  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 
In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer 

day, 
And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton 

shore 

In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story 

told; 
And    waves    aglow    with    sunset 

gold, 
Rising   and    breaking  in    steady 

chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm    and    kept    the 

time. 

And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed 

once  more 

With  a   softer,  tenderer  after 
glow  ; 

In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with 

boats  off-shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drift 
ing  slow. 

The  beacon  glimmered  from  Ports 
mouth  bar, 

The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great 
red  star ; 

And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time 
lay 

Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night 
and  day ! 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 

PIERO  LUCA,  known    of  all    the 

town 

As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the 

gardens  fall, 
Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay 

down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  besides 

his  mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa 

sat. 

Unseen,  in  square  and  blossoming 
garden  drifted, 


Soft  sunset  lights  through  green 

Val  d'  Arno  sifted  ; 
Unheard,  below  the  living  shuttles 

shifted 
Backward  and  forth,   and  wove, 

in  love  or  strife, 
In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web 

of  life : 
But  when   at  last  came  upward 

from  the  street 

Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  meas 
ured  feet, 
The  sick  man  started,  strove  to 

rise  in  vain, 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan 

of  pain. 
And  the  monk  said,  '"T  is  but  the 

Brotherhood 
Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand 

good: 

Their  black  masks  by  the  palace- 
wall  I  see." — 
Piero  answered  faintly,  "Woe  is 

me  ! 
This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty 

years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in 

my  ears, 
Calling  me   with  my  brethren  of 

the  mask, 
Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some 

new  task 
Of  love  or  pity, — haply  from  the 

street 
To  bear  a  wretch  plague-stricken, 

or,  with  feet 
Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and 

feverish  brain, 
To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's 

floors, 
Down  the  long    twilight  of  the 

corridors, 
'Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full 

of  pain. 
I  loved  the  work  :  it  was  its  own 

reward. 

I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 
My  sins,  which  are  many ,  or  make 

less  my  debt 
To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of 

our  Lord ; 

But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come 
to  be 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 


In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part 

of  me, 

I  should  riot  know  myself,  if  lack 
ing  it, 
But  with  the  work  the  worker  too 

would  die, 
And  in  my  place  some  other  self 

would  sit 
Joyful  or  sad, — what  matters,  if 

not  I? 
And  now  all's  over.     Woe  is  me  !  " 

—"My  son,'' 
The  monk  said  soothingly,   "thy 

work  is  done ; 
And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the 

guest 
Of  God  thou  enterest  thy  eternal 

rest. 
No  toil,   no  tears,  no  sorrow  for 

the  lost 
Shall  mar  thy  perfect  bliss.     Thou 

shalt  sit  down 
Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a 

golden  crown 
Forever      and       forever." — Piero 

tossed 
On  his  sick  pillow:    "Miserable 

me  ! 

I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  com 
pany  ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for 

this  gray 
Old  head  ;  and  God  forgive  me,  if 

I  say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night 

and  day, 

Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  do 
ing  nought 
With  these  hard  hands,  that  all 

my  life  have  wrought, 
Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity's 

sake. 
I'm  dull  at  prayers  :  I  could  not 

keep  awake, 
Counting  my  beads.     Mine  's  but 

a  crazy  head, 
Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else 

be  dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without 

a  heart, 
God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his 

better  part. 


I  love  my  fellow-men  ;  the  worst 

I  know 
I  would  do  good  to.     Will  death 

change  me  so 
That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy 

saints, 
Turning  a    deaf  ear  to  the  sore 

complaints 
Of    souls    that    suffer?    Why,    I 

never  yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  thestrada  hard 

beset, 
Or  ass    o'erladen !     Must    I  rate 

man  less 

Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfish 
ness  ? 
Methinks  (Lord,    pardon,    if    the 

thought  be  sin  !) 
The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if 

therein 
One's  heart  might  still  be  human, 

and  desires 
Of    natural    pitv  drop    upon    its 

fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 
His  brow,  and  muttering,  "Mad 
man  !  thou  art  lost ! '' 
Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled  ;  and, 

left  alone, 
The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with 

a  great  groan 
That  sank  into  a  prayer,   "Thy 

will  be  done  ! " 


Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul 

or  ear, 

Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bend 
ing  o'er  him, 
And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her 

who  bore  him. 
Tender  and  most  compassionate  : 

"Be  of  cheer  ! 
For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself 

is  love  ; 
Thy  work  below  shall  be  thy  work 

above." 
And   when  he  looked,  lo !   in  the 

stern  monk's  place 
He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel's 

face! 


452 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


THE  VANISHERS. 

SWEETEST  of  all  childlike  dreams 
In  the  simple  Indian  lore 

Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 
Of  the  Elves  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through   the   dark  of  lowland 
firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch- leaves 
toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the 
green 

Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 
In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles 

flow 
On    the    slopes    of    westering 

knolls ; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

I  )oubt  who  may,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too  ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 
In  the  gold  of  setting  day  ; 

More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 
Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 
Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  lost, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth 
As  the  tongues  of  Pentecost, — 


Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 
Sweetness  that  transcends  our 

taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 
Shining    feet    that    mock    our 
haste, — 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 

Guided  thus,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still  with  baffled  feet 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand, 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land ! 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunny 

smiles 

Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles, 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray 

stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-born, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn  ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet, 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown, 
Over  silver-sanded  beach, 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains 
keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills  ? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills  ? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 


453 


Carved  his  savage  heraldry  ? 
Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples 

dim, 
Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim  ? 

Rugged  type  of  primal  man, 
Grim  utilitarian, 

Loving  woods  for  hunt  and  prowl, 
Lake  and  hill  for  fish  and  fowl, 
As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful : 

Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From    the  mountains    smit  with 

dawn. 
Star-rise,    moon-rise,    flowers    of 

May, 

Sunset's  purple  bloom  of  day, — 
Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  affluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  he : 
Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are  ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows  in  winter  tramp, 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  faint  and  far, 
Stealing    down    from  moon    and 

star, 

Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God  ? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 
Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark, 
What  sepulchral  mysteries, 
What    weird    funeral-rites,   were 

his? 
What    sharp    wail,    what    drear 

lament, 
Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  ? 

Now,  whate'er  he  may  have  been, 

Low  he  lies  as  other  men  ; 

On    his    mound     the     partridge 

drums, 

There  the  noisy  blue- jay  comes  ; 
Rank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 


Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  lake  ! 
Moss-grown    rocks,    your    silence 

break  ! 

Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men  ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine  ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones  ; 
Vain    the    search    of    crumbling 

bones : 

Deepest  of  all  mysteries, 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 

Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day  ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's  ? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery  ; 
And  the  hush  of  earth' and  air 
Seemed     the    pause      before     ff 
prayer,— 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 
Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast, — 
Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 
In  rock-cave  or  pyramid  : 
All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 
Well     may      need    the     prayei 
"  Forgive  ! " 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep    dust    that   once    was 

man, 

Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors    with     white     bones 

tiled, 

Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod. 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer»to  God 


45-i 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Ob,  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies  ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  rny  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where    the    camping-ground    of 

ghosts  ? 
Where    the     spectral    conscripts 

led 

To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 
What  strange   shore  or  charfcless 

sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then    the  warm  sky    stooped    to 

make 

Double  sunset  in  the  lake  ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it, 
l&nge  on  range,  the  mountains 

lit; 

A  nd  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
1  ,ike  an  answer  to  my  soul. 

ITear'st  thou,  O  of  little  faith, 

•  hat  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
'That is  whispered  by  the  trees ? — 
••  Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these  ; 
Trust  Him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim  : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"  Blind  must  be  their  close-shut 

eyes 
Where    like    night    the  sunshine 

lies, 

"iery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Unding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
'trong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
<>ut  without  He  waiteth  still. 

•  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Ooth  the  Love  Eternal  flow  ; 
^very  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer  ; 
Vnd  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

1  Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these    souls    in 

prison  ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 


Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper    than    that    cross    could 
sound !  " 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian      grave      and    heathen 

mound, 

And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh    in  shade    and 

gleam  ! 

On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,   O  flowers,  your  bells  of 

bloom ! 

Deep  below,  as  high  above, 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH. 

"  Tie  stille,  barn  min  ! 
Imorgen  kommer  Fin, 
Fa'er  din, 

Og  gi'er  dig  Esbern  Snares  oine  og  hjerte 
at  lege  med  1 " 

Zealand  Rhyme. 

"  Build    at    Kallundborg    by  the 

sea 
A  church  as  stately  as  church  mr,  y 

be, 
And   there    shalt    thou    wed  n:y 

daughter  fair," 
Said  the  Lord  of  Nesvek  to  Esbern 

Snare. 

And    the    Baron    laughed.     But 

Esbern  said, 
"Though  I  lose    my  soul,  I  will 

Helva  wed ! " 
And  off  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of 

will, 
To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi 

hill. 

"  Build,  O  Troll,  a  churc1    ror  me 
At    Kallundborg    by  the  mighty 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH. 


455 


Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair, 
Build    it    quickly,"   said   Esbern 
Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,  "  No  work 
is  wrought 

By  Trolls  of  the  Hills,  O  man,  for 
nought. 

What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church 
so  fair?" 

"Set  thy  own  price,"  quoth  Es 
bern  Snare. 

"When    Kallundborg    church    is 

builded  well, 
Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder 

tell, 
Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be 

my  boon." 
"Build,"    said       Esbern,      "and 

build  it  soon." 

By    night    and  by  day   the  Troll 

wrought  on  ; 
He  hewed  the  timbers,  he  piled 

the  stone ; 
But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose 

fair, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern 

Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched 

by  day, 
He  sought  and  thought,  but  he 

dared  not  pray ; 
In  vain  he  called  on  the  Elle-maids 

shy, 
And  the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave 

no  reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 

A  rumor  ran  through  the  country 
side  ; 

And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young  and 
fair, 

Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern 
Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh 

done  ; 
One    pillar    it    lacked,    and    one 

alone ; 


And    the    grim    Troll    muttered, 

"Fool  thou  art! 
To-morrow  gives  me  thy  eyes  and 

heart ! " 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair, 
Through     wood      and      meadow, 

walked  Esbern  Snare, 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong 

man  sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At   his  last   day's  work  he  heard 

the  Troll 
Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's 

hole ; 
Before  him  the  church  stood  large 

and  fair  : 
"I  have   builded  my  tomb,"  said 

Esbern  Snare. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight 

to  hide, 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his 

side  : 
"  O  Esbern  Snare  !  "  a  sweet  voice 

said, 
"  Would  I  might  die  now  in  thy 

stead  ! " 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear 

made  strong. 
He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her 

long; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird 

afeard, 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red 

beard. 

"  O  love  !  "  he  cried,  "  let  me  look 

to-day 
In  thine  eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked 

away  ; 
Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  me  feel 

thy  heart 
Ere    mine   by   the   Troll    is  torn 

apart ! 

"I  sinned,  O  Helva,  for  love  of 

thee ! 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon 

me!" 


456 


WHITTIER-S  POEMS. 


But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster 

still, 
Hammered    the    Troll  in   Ulshoi 

hill. 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a 

loving  heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art ; 
For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 
Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's 
soul. 

And  Esbern  listened,  and  caught 
the  sound 

Of  a  Troll-wife  singing  under 
ground  : 

"To-morrow  comes  Fine,  father 
thine  : 

Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby 
mine  ! 

"  Lie.still,  my  darling  !  next  sun 
rise 

Thou'lt  play  with  Esbern  Snare's 
heart  and  eyes!" 

"  Ho  !  ho  ! "  quoth  Esbern,  "  is 
that  your  game  ? 

Thanks  to  the  Troll-wife,  I  know 
his  name ! " 

The    Troll    he    heard    him,    and 

hurried  on 
To  Kallundborg  church  with  the 

lacking  stone. 
"Too  late,   Gaffer  Fine!"    cried 

Esbern  Snare ; 
And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in 

air! 

That  night  the  harvesters  heard 

the  sound 

Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground, 
And  the  voice  of  the  Hill-Troll  loud 

with  blame 
Of  the  careless  singer  who  told  his 

name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they 

sing  the  rune 
By  the  Northern  Sea  in  the  harvest 

moon  ; 
And   tlie   fishers  of  Zealand  hear 

him  still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 


And  seaward  over  its  groves  of 
birch 

Still  looks  the  tower  of  Kallund 
borg  church, 

Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded 
pair, 

Stood  Helva  of  Nesvek  and  Esbern 
Snare  ! 


THE  MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN 
MATHA. 

A  LEGEND  OF  "THE  RED,  WHITE,  AND 
BLUE,"  A.  D.  1154-1864. 

A  strong  and  mighty  Angel, 
Calm,  terrible,  and  bright, 

The  cross  in  blended  red  and  blue 
Upon  his  mantle  white  ! 

Two  captives  by  him  kneeling, 
Each  on  his  broken  chain, 

Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 
The  dead  to  life  again  ! 

Dropping       his        cross- wrought 

mantle 

"  Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said  ; 
'•Take  thou,  O  Freedom's  priest, 

its  sign, — 
The  white,  the  blue,  and  red." 

Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 
In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ 

gave, 
And  begged  through  all  the  land 

iof  France 
ransom  of  the  slave. 

The  gates  of  tower  and  castle 

Before  him  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coming  fell, 

The  door-bolt  backward  drew. 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand, 
And  paid  his  righteous  tax  ; 

And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 
Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 
His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 

Freighted  with  seven  score  Chris 
tian  souls 
Whose  ransom  lie  had  paid, 


THE  MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  MATHA. 


457 


But,  torn  by  Paynim  hatred, 
Her  sails  in  tatters  hung  ; 

And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudder 
less, 
A  shattered  hulk  she  swung. 

"  God  save  us !  "  cried  the  captain, 
"  For  nought  can  man  avail : 

Oh,    woe    betide    the    ship    that 

lacks 
Her  rudder  and  her  sail ! 

"  Behind  us  are  the  Moormen  ; 

At  sea  we  sink  or  strand  : 
There  's  death  upon  the  water, 

There  's  death  upon  the  land  !  " 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 
"  God's  errands  never  fail ! 

Take    thou    the  mantle  which  I 

wear, 
And  make  of  it  a  sail." 

They    raised     the    cross-wrought 

mantle, 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
And  straight  before  the  wind  off 
shore 
The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  seamen, 
**  For  vain  is  mortal  skill : 

The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 
Is  drifting  at  its  will." 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 
"  My  mariners,  never  fear ! 

The  Lord  whose  breath  has  filled 

her  sail 
May  well  our  vessel  steer  !  " 

.So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 
They  drove  for  weary  hours  ; 

And  lo  !  the  third  gray  morning 

shone 
On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 
The  ship  of  mercy  knew, — 

They  knew  far  off  its  holy  cross, 
The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 


And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 
Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 

To    welcome    home   to   Christian 

soil 
The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

So  runs  the  ancient  leger.d 
By  bard  and  painter  told  ; 

And  lo  !  the  cycle  rounds  again, 
The  new  is  as  the  old ! 

With  rudder  foully  broken, 
And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 

Our  Country  on  a  midnight  sea 
Is  waiting  for  the  morn. 

Before  her,  nameless  terror  ; 

Behind,  the  pirate  foe  ; 
The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 

The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 
The  dread  of  all  who  wrong  ; 

She    drifts    in    darkness    and    in 

storm, 
How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  ? 

But  courage,  O  my  mariners ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck, 
While  up  to  God  the  freedman's 
prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 
Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 

The      mantle     that      De    Matha 

wore, 
The  red,  the  white,  the  blue? 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven, — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The    whiteness    of    the    moon-lit 
cloud, 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 

Wait  cheerily,  then,  O  mariners, 
For  daylight  and  for  land  ; 

The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail, 
Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 


458 


WHITTIER'S  POEMS. 


Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 
With  blessings  and  with  hopes  ; 

The  saints  of   old  with  shadowy 

hands 
Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 
Uplift  the  palm  and  crown  ; 

Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 
Their  benedictions  down. 


Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha  ! — 
God's  errands  never  fail ! 

'Sweep  on  through  storm  and  dark 
ness, 
The  thunder  and  the  hail  1 

Sail  on !    The  morning  cometh, 
The  port  ye  yet  shall  win  ; 

And  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 
The  good  ship  bravely  in  I 


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Book  Slip-50m-8,'69  (N831s8)458-A-31/5 


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N9  670045 


Whittier,  J.G. 
Poems . 


PS3250 
E85 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


